


It's been like years since it's been clear

by sirona



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Canonical Character Death, Derek the interior design guru, Derek you dork use your words, F/M, Happy endings all round, Kate you are a bit of a bitch sorry, Kitten!, M/M, Peter you are a bastard, Pining, Renovations, Romance, Sassy Uncle Peter, Stiles is a delightful woodland creature, Stiles loves his Derek, but he still makes time to ask Stiles for advice, but i still love you, failboat Derek to the fore, feeeeeelings, grumpy growly Derek is my favourite, hints of past dub-con, mentions of past underage sexual relations, poor Stiles and the things he has to put up with, puppy!, shopping for curtains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's six-thirty in the morning, but there are warm lights behind the floor-to-ceiling, de-boarded windows, and the 'For Sale' sign on the door has disappeared along with Stiles' memory of where he'd been headed just moments before. The coffee shop is, apparently, open for business once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a way to cope with the trauma induced by episode 2x10. This is an alternate universe, but there will be canon spoilers up to and including 2x09. This is a WIP, but I anticipate updating it fairly frequently as I try to escape from all my ~feeeeeels. Fic Spoiler: this fic will have a happy ending. Because it will. >.>
> 
> Thank you to Pollyrepeat for her encouragement and fantastic fullfilment of beta reading duties, and to Lanyon for the title wrangling and general flail. ♥
> 
> For all the people on my twitter list who weathered the storm with me.
> 
>  **ETA:** Would you LOOK at this [fanart](http://itspuckurtbitch.tumblr.com/post/42600828190/sterek-au-based-on-the-fic-its-been-like-years) this utterly amazing person on tumblr has made based on this story. STARS IN MY EYEBALLS. ♥

Stiles is dying. Stiles is dying, gasping, he is fairly expiring from thirst, the lack of caffeine in his bloodstream actively trying to murder him, making his hands shake and his eyes blur, and he has three meetings this morning that promise to take all of his mental capacity and then some. The fact that his brain is barely even working at all right now is nothing less than a recipe for disaster. He needs coffee, and plenty of it, stat, or it will be the end of Stilinski Consultancy. His little firm will disappear in a roar of flames, and Stiles is adamantly not prepared to concede defeat just yet, not now when things are actually looking up. This morning could be the making of them, and he is not going to squander it -- he's going to _own_ those meetings, whatever it takes.

What's worse, the _worst_ , is that since Mr and Mrs Meyers retired about a month ago, the best coffee shop in town has been woefully, depressingly out of commission, windows dark and door remaining firmly closed. Stiles desperately misses their mule's kick of an espresso, the old behemoth coffee machine that used to sputter and moan and make absolutely the most delicious coffee that Stiles has ever had the blissful pleasure of tasting. He misses the mouthwatering smell of Mrs Meyers' chocolate and stem ginger cookies, her peach cream cupcakes, the plum crumble that used to taste like sunshine. He can only hope that the new owner knows what huge shoes they've got to fill--

Hang on. Stiles' sleepy thoughts rumble to a screeching halt, along with his beloved Jeep, right in the middle of the thankfully-still-empty street. It's six-thirty in the morning, but there are warm lights behind the floor-to-ceiling, de-boarded windows, and the 'For Sale' sign on the door has disappeared along with Stiles' memory of where he'd been headed just moments before. The coffee shop is, apparently, open for business once more.

If it's still a proper coffee shop. Stiles might actually break down and cry if it turns out that the monster of a machine is gone and it is being turned into just another generic Starbucks.

After a moment he gets a smidgen of his wits back and steers his Jeep off the street, throwing it into Park a few meters from the front door. There is a shadow moving behind the bar, when Stiles sidles over and surreptitiously peeks inside -- or, okay, surreptitiously doing anything this early in the morning? He'd like to see _you_ try that one on for size. It's not his fault that his feet are still adjusting to being made to walk straight again. The bump on his forehead where he smacks straight into the polished windowpane is painful enough without the excruciating embarrassment of being glared at by--

Oh, boy. _Oh, boy_. 

The man behind the bar is. He's. Uh. Pale green eyes bore into Stiles' through thirty feet of space like he's right in front of Stiles, heavy black eyebrows scrunched over them to give him a menacing air not unlike that of a grumpy, growly bear. The man has a day's growth of dark stubble over his jaw, generous lips pressed together disdainfully, cheekbones that Stiles could cut his fingers on if he tried to touch them--

Not that he would. No. Nooooo, that way madness lies. Stiles has enough on his plate without a wholly inappropriate, ugly-laughing in the face of his self-preservation, little boy crush. Or not so little. Not so little at all--

Oh god, he's coming over. He prowls down the length of the shop, dark jeans hugging lean hips, a gray Henley clinging to shoulders that make Stiles swallow fitfully, a chest that... Uh. 

He did mention his antagonistic relationship with early mornings, right? Stiles wonders whether it's worth explaining to this ~~Greek God~~ ~~chiseled hunk of manhood~~ ~~perfect specimen of a walking daydream~~ _guy_ that Stiles is... not at his best during the early hours.

He could always run away and get Lydia to explain...

\--Yeah, how about _no_. She mocks him plenty even without Stiles handing her ammunition of this caliber.

The man is standing right in front of Stiles now, on the other side of the glass. He's... tall. And broad. He could probably lift Stiles with those arms alone, prop him against a wall and...

Stiles shakes his head, wondering when his usually reliable perception of reality decided to take a nap on him. A guy looking like that would never. Not that Stiles is bad-looking, or anything, he doesn't lack in self-confidence, but someone like that, yeah. Dream on, Stilinski.

The guy is still standing there, arms crossed over his chest making it bulge in extremely interesting ways that Stiles is not going to think about, compelling eyes narrowed on him. Stiles feels like they're seeing right through him and out of the other side. He blinks, throat feeling dry and sore. He lifts a hand, like some _complete idiot_ , and _wiggles his fingers_. Oh god, the guy is going to think he's an absolute moron. Three sandwiches short of a picnic. Stiles did mention the early morning thing, right? He may have forgotten to take his Adderall before hightailing it out of the door, now that he thinks about it. Oh god, he wants to call his dad and ask him to drive over and _shoot him now_. It will be a mercy.

The strong eyebrows lift pointedly, and the guy looks at him down his long, straight nose. Stiles is absolutely not getting a little hard at that look. At all. And even if he was, it would be the most ridiculous delusion he has ever succumbed to, because yeah, he has a chance with that like he does with Lydia--

\--Lydia. _The meeting. Fuck_. 

"Oh, god," Stiles moans, staring down at the watch on the hand that's _still held up in greeting_ , he is never going to be able to go inside this shop again without dying of mortification. "Sorry," he yelps, somehow resisting the urge to cringe at how insane he sounds, and trips backwards over his own feet, falling against the frame of his Jeep, still damnably undercaffeinated. He's going to have to chug down a whole pot before Lydia gets there and shakes her head at him in that despairing way of hers, like she's still wondering what possessed her to go into business with him.

He climbs inside, throwing one last look at the fucking _delicious_ -looking man still looking after him in bemusement, and sighs, resigned to his fate of never, ever making the right impression, of always coming across as 'that clumsy idiot' to anyone who doesn't know him already, that isn't used to his ways. He closes his eyes for a second, feels his mouth droop in the corners. Well, at least that will nix his anxiety in the bud, knowing that he couldn't possibly embarrass himself any more in front of the first guy to have caught his eye in years. Now that he's taken care of sending out the correct Stilinski impression, he can just go in for coffee, without the fluttering, aching hope for the chance of... _anything_. 

'Deep breaths, Stiles. It's not like you should have expected anything different. Besides, you have a meeting to go to,' he reminds himself, and if his grip on the shift is a little more white-knuckled than it ought to be, well. No one will ever know.

\---

Because this is Stiles' _life_ , news about the freshly-re-opened coffee shop is all over town by lunchtime. Stiles must have been the first person to have stumbled upon the new owner as he took stock of the place, and as such he is fairly _mobbed_ when he mentions it.

"Damn it, I don't know a thing about him, I told you already," he grouses, throwing Lydia and Allison a betrayed look when they just prop their elbows on the counter by his desk and pillow their cheeks on them, batting their eyelashes at him. He doesn't even know why Allison bothers, she and Scott are practically engaged. "I only saw him for a minute, and all he did was glare at me."

"But is he hot?" Lydia wants to know, narrowing her eyes at him playfully. Stiles swallows. 

"Uh. Kind of? In a 'I'm deciding whether or not to rip your throat out' kind of way? Sort of... brooding. And dark. Dark and brooding and menacing."

Allison and Lydia share a look that makes little goosebumps skitter down Stiles' spine. He knows that look. That is a 'conspire against Stiles for his own good' look that promises nothing good. The last time Stiles had been subject to it, they had tried to set him up with Jackson, which, _a world of no_ , even two years later.

Footsteps sound around the corner, preceded by a smell that, no lie, gets Stiles half-hard all on its own.

"Jesus fuck," he groans, while Lydia and Allison's heads whip around. Danny falters in his approach, a large brown paper bag clutched in one huge hand, a strange logo on the side that Stiles has never seen before.

"Danny," he groans breathlessly, and Danny blinks at him. 

"Uh, did I miss anything?" he asks, eyes darting uncertainly between them. 

"Stiles is being unusually tight-lipped," Lydia announces, making Danny's eyebrows rise and his mouth twitch.

"It's true," Allison chimes in. "It's disturbing. See if you can't get him back to his usual motormouth ways?"

Danny lifts an eyebrow Stiles' way. Stiles just barely resists thumping his head down on his desk, over the _towering mountains_ of research paperwork that he could be making his way through instead of being badgered by his heartless colleagues. He pouts. Danny's mouth twitches some more, which is ridiculously charming. Not for the first time, Stiles wishes that Danny found him attractive at all.

"What's in the bag?" he asks, possibly a little too loudly, not to mention pointedly, but he's desperate here.

Danny's eyes crinkle a little, which just tells Stiles that Danny knows _exactly_ what Stiles is doing, but he's willing to play along.

"I," he declares dramatically, "have been scooping out the local happenings." He plops the bag on the one clear corner of Stiles' desk, untwisting the top. 

Stiles takes one look at the straightened logo, a stylised wolf's head with bright yellow eyes, and his brain decides to remind him just why it looks so familiar -- he'd last seen it etched onto the top stretched over the chest of the guy from the coffee shop this morning. The memory of that sight is still etched behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. He can grumble all he wants, but he can't deny that it had been one hell of a sight.

He's yanked out of his contemplation of vast, thickly-muscled shoulders by the smell. It's... It's like that smell is hard-wired to his salivary glands, because his mouth fairly floods with it, the rich, earthy smell of top-notch coffee weaving with the lighter scent of apple and cinnamon muffins. 

"Holy god," Lydia moans, slim fingers darting inside the bag and pulling out a perfect golden muffin, bringing it to her nose reverently. "These cannot possibly taste as good as they smell."

The filthy smirk on Danny's mouth begs to differ.

"Try the coffee," he says slyly, and hands Stiles a cup with the same logo on the side. 

The wolf stares at him soulfully, muzzle closed, looking... almost sweet. Stiles shakes himself, pops the cap and buries his nose inside, drawing the life-giving smell of it deep into his lungs. There's a curl of... something in his gut, almost premonition, almost like his life is about to take a sudden turn that throws him out of whack. There is absolutely _nothing_ to cause the feeling, and yet...

He shrugs it off, and takes a sip.

Flavour explodes on his tongue, sliding like velvet against his palate, a hint of cinnamon and vanilla that makes his mouth want to keep the liquid inside it forever. He swallows almost defiantly, but it's a mistake, he knows that straight away, because the burst of taste at the back of his throat, the delicious sweetness, the warmth of it, it soothes him in a way that no mere drink should be able to do.

"What," he wheezes when he's done, staring at the innocuous caramel-brown surface in terrible suspicion. 

"Good, right?" Danny says happily, so eager to share the joy of discovery that Stiles has no choice but to deflate.

"Magic," he says darkly, scowling at the delightfully warm cup in his hand. "Black magic."

"Hale magic, more like," Jemima says, dancing closer and nudging Stiles aside to poke her nose in his drink. Her skin is the same colour as the coffee, which is kind of surreal. 

"No," Lydia gasps. Allison looks confused -- she only moved into town years after the Hales had left, after the nearly disastrous fire that took their house and almost cost them their lives. Jemima, on the other hand, is a born-and-bred Beaconite. She'd been in the year below them at high school, and she'd pestered and prodded Stiles, when he'd opened the Consultancy, until he'd agreed to hire her. He freely admits it's the best business choice he's ever made by himself. 

Stronger men than Stiles would have failed to hold back their shocked inhale. "Hale? You mean that guy back there was _Derek frigging Hale_?"

Jemima lifts one perfectly shaped eyebrow that makes Lydia look at her with big-sisterly approval. "Well, yeah. I mean, it's been ten years, but I don't think I'll ever forget those eyes."

Something sharp stabs Stiles in the gut for absolutely no reason whatsoever. No reason at all. Nothing to do with a cold night ten years ago, when Derek Hale had found him miserably shivering in a cave in the woods by the Hale house, having lost his way, eyes bleary with unshed tears two days after he and his dad had buried his mother. Derek had glared at him (and now that Stiles thinks back, he honestly can't _believe_ he missed that, that he'd seen the guy stare at him this morning and not put the dots together, given the fact that he still dreams of that night with distressing frequency), dragged him back into the open, pushed him inside his black growling muscle car, and driven him home with the heater blasting on full. 

He sits there staring into the distance, a phantom chill making his shoulders lock, when a light, warm hand curls over the back of his neck, and Allison steps just a touch closer. She alone knows what happened that night, because she had been the only one whom Stiles had told, years later, after Allison's mother had chosen to die at her own hand rather than let the Alzheimer's ravage her mind. It had been exceedingly small comfort, but it had been all that Stiles had had to give, and Allison had seemed grateful for it -- they'd certainly been much closer after that talk.

Anyway. It's not like the others know, and it's not like it changes anything. So Derek Hale is back in town, and apparently he makes the most heavenly coffee. It doesn't change a thing. He's still the same quiet, taciturn guy that he was a decade ago; still has that thousand-yard stare, still manages, without even intending, to make Stiles feel small and inadequate and like there are foot-tall neon red letters over his head blinking 'hi, I like you so much'.

Stiles resolves to forget all about stupidly hot men that very likely don't remember him at all, and concentrate on work. This, at least, he can deal with.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention: title from The Beatles' _Here Comes The Sun_ , obviously. :)

"So," Stiles' dad says the next night, at their bi-weekly dinner together. "I hear Derek Hale's back in town."

Seriously. Kill him now.

"Yeah?" Stiles replies, playing dumb and shovelling _delicious_ steamed broccoli, _thanks, dad_ , in his mouth. 

Sheriff Stilinski just looks at him. He doesn't even have to lift his eyebrows to pin Stiles in place, and it's _so unfair_ that his dad can still do that, Stiles is _twenty-two years old_ , damn it.

He shrugs, in the end, because wracking his brains or no, there's no reason for his dad to find the fact that Derek is back interesting when applied to Stiles."You been by the store?"

The guilty way his father avoids his eyes tells Stiles exactly what he'd been doing in there, too. Stiles sighs. "What was it?"

"Raspberry cheesecake," his dad mutters to his plate. Stiles manfully resists thumping his head on the table.

"Was it any good, at least?"

The look on his father's face is transported. 

"That good, huh," Stiles murmurs when his father, for one of the few times in his life, is lost for words. (Stiles didn't inherit his mouth _just_ from his mother.)

His dad clears his throat. "It's good to have him back," he says cautiously, like, what, he thinks Stiles is the kind of asshole who would be annoyed to see people returning to Beacon Hills? He's almost offended.

_And then._

"You should go by and see him sometime. I seem to remember you two were friends, and he looks like he could use a few, now that he's come home."

"Oh my god," Stiles says, mouth gaping open despite how gross it must look, with half-masticated chicken and potatoes inside it. " _Dad_."

His dad shrugs. "What? I'm just saying."

Stiles huffs. He honestly doesn't know how to feel right now. On the one hand, his dad remembers Derek, which means he remembers the circumstances of first meeting Derek, vis-a-vis delivering his twelve-year-old son home after he and Stiles had had a horrible argument, and Stiles had run off all on his own, and his dad had been going frantic with worry trying to think where he might have gone. Which, Stiles still gets a clench in his chest when he thinks about all the pain they had caused each other, just because it was the two of them alone now, the binding influence of his mom gone gone _gone_.

On the other hand, his dad has that look in his eye, exactly like the time he talked about Officer Martin's twenty-three year old bisexual son non-stop for a week straight, and just, _no_. Not when there are few things that Stiles would like more, or could afford less if he wanted to keep his equilibrium. Derek Hale is dangerous for his state of mind, and Stiles isn't forgetting that in a hurry.

"Dad, come on. Are you kidding me? It's Derek friggin' Hale. Have you seen him lately? And _why_ is everyone assuming that I would be interested in him? Or him in me?"

His dad gives him a strange look, chewing thoughtfully on carrots that seriously do not merit this much attention. Stiles takes in his face, and hurriedly changes the topic -- his dad hasn't been the head of law enforcement in this town for the past fifteen years because of his kind hazel eyes, and Stiles _does not_ want to talk about his stupid crush. Or other things that he does not want to consider under his father's roof, with his father in the room. The full body blush is just as mortifying now as it used to be when he was a kid.

\---

He's starting to, a touch hysterically, think that there must be something in the water, when Scott stops by the office a few days later, ostensibly to say 'hi' but really to steal a few kisses from his girlfriend, and immediately starts gossiping about fucking Derek fucking Hale. It's like Stiles can't get away.

"Seriously. Seriously, Scott?"

Scott looks adorably confused, which serves the dual purpose of making Stiles go, against his will as always, 'oh, puppy', and want to die of embarrassment. Because Scott _clearly_ doesn't know what Stiles is talking about, which means that he clearly didn't intend to shove Derek Hale into Stiles' face, which means Stiles did that one all on his own. Fuck.

" _Fuck_ ," he snarls, hands rubbing over his face while Scott stares at him, the familiar warmth of his concern sliding gently over Stiles' skin. 

"You okay, man?" Scott asks, and Stiles wants to scream. 

"Yeah," he says, waving a careless hand. _No,_ he thinks miserably. "Pfffft. Sure. Just a little stressed out, the Heyneman reports are due soon and I'm behind on the analysis."

The even more familiar glazed look takes over Scott's face, and Stiles exhales. Safe again.

Still, the encounter leaves him unsettled. Is he really thinking about this so much that he's starting to read things into conversations that aren't there? Because that is _not_ what he wants. It's something he's actively trying to avoid, yet here it is, slipping in through the gaps, making him crack open and want things he knows damn well he can't have.

Desperate times require desperate measures.

"Heading out for a coffee run," he announces the next day, heart beating double-time in his chest and sticking in his throat a little. He's proud of how even his voice sounds. "Anybody want anything?"

As one, Lydia, Allison and Jemima slowly lift their heads from what they're doing. Stiles swallows.

"Okay, that was not creepy at all," he tries to assure himself while they all lift their eyebrows at him. Pod people.

The girls share a look, which, seriously, he's running out for _coffee_ , not a frigging--oh, whatever. For real, they're taking this thing much too seriously. He isn't some lonely hermit languishing untouched at his studio apartment across town. He doesn't need _fixing_. So what if there's a hot new--old-- _returning_ guy in town, Stiles is not going to fucking roll over and beg for attention, Jesus Christ. 

And now he's in a foul mood. Thanks, guys. "Nevermind," he grouses, and almost, _almost_ scraps the whole idea.

But the thing is, it has been five days since that cup of coffee that came to him like a revelation from on high, and if he's honest, he's been craving another like nobody's business. He wonders if Derek puts something in it, or if he's just that good. 

The _other_ thing is that he's tired of people doing this hinting thing. He's not hiding or anything, and he isn't avoiding the place. He _isn't_. And he's going to show them, he's going to go in there and say hello and get a fucking cup of coffee and then maybe they can all _shut the fuck up_ about it. This isn't some romance novel. Derek Hale isn't going to take one look at him and remember who Stiles is and fall down on his knees and confess to the torch he's been carrying for him all the years he's been away and propose. This isn't a thing that is going to happen. Ever. He wishes people would stop looking at him like it's inevitable that he and Derek will shack up, because a) it isn't, and b) just because maybe the thought of Derek Hale on his knees does a few things to Stiles ( _things_. That are _fine_ , because he's a twenty-two year old and _not dead_ ) does not mean that he's going to act on any of it. 

He grabs his keys, gives them all flat, unimpressed looks, and leaves, ignoring the thoughtful hum he hears before he closes the door. He hopes they're happy. He hopes they think long and hard before bringing it up again.

He stomps down the stairs to his car, climbing inside and putting his hands on the wheel, taking a deep breath and telling himself that he is being absurd. It's a little harder to tell the lump in his stomach to unclench, but he grits his teeth and glares out of the window until it's no more than a buzz at the back of his mind. This is ridiculous. 

He fumes all through the the five blocks drive to the coffee shop, yanking the stick in Park so hard the whole Jeep shudders. Then he thumps his head on the wheel, and groans. He hates that he's been pushed to do this, that he can't play his avoidance game in peace, that he can't just forget that Derek Hale is back in town and get on with his life. He hates that he feels pressured into this, that he can't deal with the weird, unsettling itch under his skin on his own time -- but that's no reason to take it out on anyone else, and certainly no reason to go into this angry. It's just a fucking coffee, even if it tastes like liquid delight, even if it makes something in his chest unwind for the first time in what feels like forever.

"Pull it together, Stilinski," he mutters to himself, staring at the soft, inviting light coming through the windows of the shop. The year is edging into Winter now, the warmth trapped in the fall days fading every time the sun rises, and really, Derek has perfect timing, because there's nothing like a hot cup of coffee on an overcast day, and the place looks like it's buzzing. 

He gets out of the Jeep just as his phone beeps; he squints at the order for four huge coffees and as many pastries as can be crammed in one of the big paper bags the shop dispenses. Well okay, then. Stiles smiles to himself, the last of his irritation fading. He doesn't even know why he let himself get so wound up by this whole situation. It's fine. It's nothing all that special; people come back to Beacon Hills all the time. So much so, in fact, that the town has started tentatively expanding, new buildings cropping up everywhere. It was one reason why Stiles decided to open the Consultancy, because if there's something he's good at, it's planning. (He leaves the actual project overseeing to Lydia, and damn, but it's _working_. _They're_ working. It's coming to the point where they're starting to get more work than they know what to do with, Stiles' frequent freak-outs notwithstanding.)

He crosses the street, making himself breathe, getting into that headspace where he's calm, confident, gets shit done. He is cool. He's so totally cool, he's got this, he's just going to go in there, smile, order his coffee, get it, and leave. Without staring at Derek's biceps as he works the ancient coffee machine with a quick efficiency that makes Stiles' pants tighten a little, without standing in the doorway like some fifteen-year-old seeing someone like _that_ outside of magazine spreads for the first time--

\-- _Damn it._ Stiles clears his throat and walks further into the shop, looking around and praying that no one noticed his lapse of control, and that his flush isn't too obvious. The place hasn't changed much. It's starker, gone the fussy decorations Mrs Meyers was so partial to; it's all polished wood and clean lines and chrome lights now. It makes the place look somehow bigger, brighter. The smell that fills the air is heady, soothing, coffee and muffins and cookies and a hint of beeswax polish, something fresh, woodsy. Stiles can actually feel his face losing the frown he'd apparently been wearing, his brow smoothing out, his mouth relaxing from its stiffness. It's... nice. Homey. Welcoming. 

"Hi," the girl--woman--at the cash register says. Her voice is low and resonant, her smile deeper, more genuine than the polished, empty professionalism of the seasoned retail worker. "Welcome to The Pack. What can I get you?"

There's something familiar about her, the luscious sheen of her long dark hair, the strong, well-shaped eyebrows, the lines of her jaw. She has deep brown eyes that seem flecked with gold, like they shine from within. 

"Hi," Stiles smiles back, shaking himself. "I'd like five large coffees to go, and, let's see..." He leans closer, nose almost pressed to the glass case crammed with goodies, eyes darting covetously everywhere. "A dozen of those muffins, and another dozen cookies, pick and mix."

The woman nods and rings him up, reaching for the stack of paper bags by the register. "Hey, Derek, five large coffees to go," she calls, and just like that, Stiles is out of excuses. He turns his head slowly, eyes seeking out the loaded presence that has been lurking nearby all the while. 

Now that he knows, he can see the boy Derek Hale used to be in this man's features, the exquisitely shaped bone structure, the brooding air his heavy dark eyebrows give him. He looks like his face might crack if he smiles, but the curious thing is: Stiles doesn't feel threatened. There's no malice in the man's stare, just a sense of being--not judged, evaluated, maybe. Like Derek is trying to make him out. 

"Five coffees," Derek rumbles in confirmation, long fingers reaching easily for the group handle, twisting it off with a practiced movement. Stiles tries not to stare as Darek moves, smooth and graceful, like he's dancing. Jesus.

"Here you are," the woman says, handing Stiles two bulging paper bags with a smile that manages to be crafty and pleasant at the same time. Stiles wonders if she's used to people ogling her--boyfriend? Something about that description doesn't fit, but Stiles will go with it for now-- all the time.

Derek starts lining up the coffees, two at a time, muscles perfectly outlined by yet another long-sleeved Henley, bunching distractingly. 

"So," Stiles says, because apparently he's suicidal now, "I hear you're back in town?"

Derek just stares at him, like he, too, can't believe what the hell just came out of Stiles' mouth. 

"I mean, obviously, you're right here, running a coffee shop, which, by the way, amazing job on that. Your coffee is like an orgasm for the mouth." Oh god, someone kill him now, please, _make him stop talking._ His face feels like it's trying to burn off. 

Derek blinks at him, placing the final coffee in the little tray for six, making sure they're all secure. His eyes are almost unearthly from this close.

"Okay, thanks, good talking to you, you guys have a nice day," Stiles babbles, busying himself with juggling bags and coffee tray and not dropping everything all at once, using it as a welcome excuse to not look at the expression that must be on Derek's face.

"Bye," the woman at the register says, amused. Stiles inwardly laments the fact that the earth refuses to open under him and put him out of his misery.

"I just said the word 'orgasm' out loud to Derek Hale," he tells himself wonderingly, once he's safely back in the confines of his Jeep. "Seriously. I shouldn't be allowed to live. It's against the laws of evolution."

He sits there for a moment longer, blinking part in horror and part in awe of just how good he is at looking insane and like an idiot at the same time. Then he starts the Jeep and, still dazed, sets off on the short drive back to work. 

There's a strange sensation on the side of his face as he pulls away, like eyes boring into him. He shakes it off; he's well past his quota of 'ridiculous' for the day. It will be for the best all round if he just buries the encounter and pretends it never happened. He can only take so much embarrassment at a time.


	3. Chapter 3

This has got to stop. Physical attraction is all well and good, but Stiles has never been the kind of person to fall for someone just because of the way they look, male or female. So sure, Derek Hale is male-model-, MMA-fighter-shaped. And that's fine for helping send Stiles to sleep most nights in a post-orgasmic haze, but it does not mean that Stiles can be stupidly smitten by it. For all he knows, Derek Hale is an asshole who can't (won't) string two words together. (He ignores the memory of Derek's warm hands on his shoulders as he'd helped him inside the car all those years ago, the way he'd switched on the heating without a word, a couple of minutes of Stiles pretending not to shiver later.) 

Besides. Stiles has a life that does not revolve around Derek friggin' Hale. He has a job he loves, and his dad to take care of, and his apartment to not neglect too badly, and his staff to manage--

\--And now also, apparently, a puppy to look after. A damn _puppy_ , like his life isn't complicated enough. 

"Dad, no, seriously. What am I going to do with a puppy? I'm hardly ever home, and I don't think I can take her into work with me, and I can't just dump her at the apartment."

His dad just looks sad at him, which is the _worst. Ploy. Ever._ Especially because it's so effective. 

"Come on, Stiles, it'll just be for a while. It's not like you've got a boss to worry about at work. She can be trained as a police dog later, like her mother. It shouldn't be for more than a year."

Lavinia looks on anxiously, muzzle tucked between her paws. She's almost eleven years old, and the pregnancy had come out of nowhere. But she's old enough that it had been Stiles' mom to pick out her name, when his dad had first been assigned a K9 unit, and his dad knows full well that he and Stiles both will do practically anything for her. Including housing her newborn daughter, regardless of the hassle involved. 

His dad pulls out the big guns. "You wouldn't want her to live in a shelter until she's old enough to train?" he says, and something inside Stiles cracks in two at the mere thought. Before he knows what he's doing, he's kneeling down and scooping the puppy up, gathering her against his chest, like he can protect her from the whole world.

"No," he says quietly, voice a little rough. "No, that's fine. She can stay with me." 

His dad smiles at him, that same mournful, bittersweet expression he always wears when the ghost of Stiles' mom is raised, by a word, or a thought, or the way Lavinia crawls into his dad's lap now, just like she used to when his mom first got sick, like she could cure her if she just stayed close enough. There is to be no more discussion of shelters of any kind. 

He still argues vehemently with his dad about what to call the pup, though -- just because his father won does not mean Stiles has taken complete leave of his personality. His dad wants something traditional, like Sarah, but Stiles has grown up with being an outlier and he'll be damned if his dog gets stuck with a boring old name.

"You're not calling her Whiplash, and that's final," his dad grunts, and Stiles subsides with a smirk. 

"Not Sarah either, though. How about..."

He looks around the room for inspiration, and his gaze falls on one of his mother's favourite books, still tucked neatly into the big bookshelf in the corner of the living room. He smiles. "How about Eyre?" 

His dad hums, thoughtful. It's simple enough that she'll come when called, and the open vowels will make her name carry through the air. Stiles knows his naming rules.

"That's... actually really nice," his dad concedes, scratching Eyre between her ears. She perks up, licking his fingers with a small pink tongue. 

"Well, by all means, don't sound so surprised," Stiles grouses. His dad smiles a little, warm and fond. 

"She'll keep you company," he says, pleased, and Stiles can't stop himself from rolling his eyes. 

"Damn it, why is everyone suddenly treating me like I've locked myself away from the world, what is this?"

Again with that look on his dad's face, the thoughtful narrowing of his eyes. Does everyone seriously think that? Yeah, so, okay, Stiles is no Lydia, he'll never be in the running for 'Social Butterfly of the Year', but it's fine. He likes it that way. It's calm, and he has his job, and his friends, and it's a good life. He's happy. Well, content, at least. He doesn't understand why people are all of a sudden all up in his beeswax about it.

Whether he likes it or not, the outcome of everyone's misplaced concern is that he is apparently now the proud daddy of a German Shepherd puppy that sniffs out every inch of his place, decides his bed is fair play, snuggles in with him all night, kicks him out of it at six o'clock the next morning because she has to pee, and charms the pants off everyone at the office when he takes her in with him.

"She is _adorable_ ," Lydia coos, long blond hair trailing down her shoulder over Eyre, sprawled out on her back, tummy presented for rubs, tongue lolling happily. "Look at her huge paws! She's gonna be as big as her mom!"

"She's gonna eat me out of house and home, you mean," Stiles grumbles, but there's no heat in it, and Eyre knows it. At the mention of food, she's up like a shot, and oh, god, she's heading straight for the bottom drawer attached to Stiles' desk. He tries to distract her by slapping his thigh and calling her name, but Eyre is a dog with a bone, so to speak, and she won't be deterred. The others follow her journey curiously, eyebrows jumping when she starts pawing at the metal and snuffling. 

"What have you got there, boss?" Jemima wants to know, poking her head over the counter and tilting it to the side, like she could see through the metal. Her grin is a little bit evil. "Eyre, have you uncovered your daddy's hidden stash of treats?"

Stiles cringes, because Jemima's closer to the mark than she knows. Eyre barks eagerly, nosing at the handle. Stiles gives in, secretly a little proud at just how good Eyre's sense of smell seems to be already. It's inevitable, and it's not like he was saving it for anything. Because he wasn't. They don't taste _that_ good.

"Is that what I think it is?" Allison says, choking on a laugh. "Stiles, you should have said. If I knew you liked Derek's cookies so much, I'd have gotten you half a dozen just for yourself!"

Stiles opens his mouth to vehemently deny any involvement, catches the women's eyes, and closes it again, rubbing a hand down his face and resigning himself to his fate.

"They're not that good," he grumbles. "I just like to have a snack handy. I have low blood sugar."

The fact that no one even bothers to contradict him makes it clear how much weight they're putting on his excuse, which is to say, none at all.

Eyre, meanwhile, chomps down the cookie in a single bite and looks around hopefully for more.

"No," Stiles tells her sternly. "You're not supposed to be eating sugar. You can't process it and you'll get diabetes and then I'll be a failure of an owner and everyone will give me the stinkeye."

Eyre's huge, soulful puppy eyes are... something else. Lydia muffles a squeal behind her hand, and Jemima loses the battle for holding back her snigger. Danny shakes his head, smirking. 

"You don't stand a chance, bro. Hey, maybe you can ask Derek to make low-sugar ones for her? I'm sure he won't be able to resist that look -- but bring Eyre with you, if you think you'll need back-up. "

It takes Stiles a moment to work that one out, and then, to his horror, he feels his cheeks start to burn. It's not like people don't say nice things about him, but it doesn't happen all that often, and he knows Danny never says anything he doesn't mean. 

"Are you going over to Derek's, then? Can you get me a coffee and a slice of apricot pie?"

"Oh, oh, get me a coffee, too, and a ginger cookie?"

"Make that three--four?--four coffees, and an apple cinnamon muffin."

"When did I turn into the delivery boy around here?" Stiles grouses, but Eyre still has some way to go to match his co-workers' begging looks. Besides. Coffee from The Pack is worth venturing inside and facing Derek again -- if only just. 

He coaches himself all the way to the shop, Eyre's muzzle happily sticking out of the window, tongue flapping in the wind. The Jeep retains smells distressingly well, and already it's starting to acquire a hint of Eau de Wet Dog. It's surprising how much it doesn't clash with the cool fall air, the dampness of the asphalt under the tires, mist blooming around them as they drive on. Unlike the other times when Stiles drowned in anxiety at approaching Derek, though, Eyre on the end of her leash, three steps out in front of him, acts like some kind of natural courage booster. Not to mention babe magnet, because the second he opens the door to the coffee shop, the dark-haired woman from the other day is out from behind the till, closing the distance between them with a bright, sweet smile on her face, arms already outstretched. Eyre rushes forward like she's greeting a long-lost friend. Honestly, how is Stiles' dog better at socialising than he is? She's lapping up the attention, wriggling closer to the woman's body, snuffling under her arms and attempting to cover her face in dog spittle. Amazingly, the woman doesn't seem to mind -- and, apparently, neither does the other member of the coffee shop staff. 

Derek, when Stiles chances to look up, is leaning strong arms on the counter, watching the scene with a small smile that transforms his entire face. His eyes are soft and half-closed, his mouth relaxed, the expressionless mask of the past two times that Stiles had seen him nowhere to be found. He looks so fond that Stiles literally cannot help the way it makes him smile, too, to see it.

"Laura, you're monopolising the customer," he rumbles, and it takes Stiles a minute to join the dots -- and then want to kick himself for taking so long. _That's_ why the woman looks so familiar -- she's a female version of Derek, but for her warm dark eyes. Laura Hale, Derek's sister. She'd been a senior when Stiles had been a freshman in high school, so they don't really know each other, but Stiles thinks that if her brother hadn't gotten him so flummoxed with his arms and his chest and his eyes and his _everything_ , Stiles would have made the connection much faster.

"Sorry," Laura laughs, giving Eyre a last squeeze, mussing the fur around her head until Eyre yips and dances back. "She's lovely. Is she yours?"

"Yeah, kind of. I'm looking after her for my dad. She'll probably be trained as a police dog in a year or so, like her mom," Stiles says, and it takes him a moment for surprised realisation to dawn: he has yet to make an ass of himself. Oh, crap, he hopes he didn't just jinx it. 

"Your dad?" Derek asks. The smile is gone when Stiles turns towards him, but he doesn't look his default scowling self, either. Observing the way Derek's eyes linger on Eyre, Stiles wonders vaguely just who the beast is in this equation.

"Yes, Sheriff Stilinski. I'm Stiles, Stiles Stilinski. I don't know if you remember, you--we were in school together. I mean, not together, you were a few years above me, but it was the same school. You probably don't remember."

 _Smooth, Stilinski._ He fights the urge to wince and hide, especially when Derek's brow furrows in confusion and he looks genuinely lost. Stiles wants to kick himself. Of fucking _course_ Derek doesn't remember him.

"Nah, sorry," Derek says dismissively. "I have a terrible memory for names."

Stiles should not be feeling so disappointed. This is ridiculous. What happened to that pep talk about not pining over a pretty face? It's fine, Jesus. The guy's entitled to not remember him; it's not like Stiles has much to add to his name from his high school career -- he wasn't a team captain, or class president, or anything at all memorable.

He turns to Laura, back behind the register, ready to order and get this over with. _She_ doesn't seem ready to take his order, though -- she's staring at her brother, something funny going on with her eyebrows. Derek darts her a quick look, and then busies himself with cleaning the machine, pointedly looking away.

The Hales are weird, Stiles concludes, looking back at Laura and feeling a bit like a spectator at a tennis match. Laura looks back at him after another moment of silently glaring at her brother, shaking off whatever mood had fallen over her. 

"Sorry, Stiles, right? I'm Laura, Laura Hale. I went to Beacon Hills High, too."

"I remember you, too," Stiles says, smiling as he shakes her hand. "You kicked ass at lacrosse."

Laura beams at him, and Stiles feels like he's finally said something right -- an impression that gets trashed when Derek commences to bang around the coffee machine, replacing groups and putting clean mugs away with much more force than necessary. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with the guy? Stiles can't do anything right with him.

Stiles sighs and looks back at Laura, determinedly pushing her awful brother to the back of his mind. He orders the coffee and pastries, and, daringly, raises the question of sugar-free treats. Laura promises to look into it with a fond look at Eyre, who is grinning up at her from beside Stiles' shin. She's making friends fast, the manipulative little monkey.

The coffees he ordered are presented to him with jerky, annoyed movements. Stiles just barely holds back from launching into a proper rant on rude, confusing people who don't know what they want. It's really, really hard, being the grown-up. Laura is looking at him with a small smirk in the corner of her mouth, like she knows what he's thinking and wouldn't mind seeing it in action. Still, Stiles wasn't raised by wolves, he got his manners drilled into him early enough that he won't let himself sink to Derek's level. 

"Thanks," he says shortly, because he's above this petty whatever-it-is with Derek fucking Hale. Hell. Hale. Whatever.

"Bye, Stiles! Hope to see you again soon," Laura calls. Stiles smiles at her, narrows his eyes at her brother, and jiggles Eyre's leash. Eyre leads the way with surprising restraint, as if sensing that her owner is this close to throwing a tantrum in the middle of the legal drugs supplier on whose good side he desperately needs to remain. 

"Derek Hale is an ass," he announces grumpily when he's back in the office, dumping the bags in the kitchenette before he's mobbed and trampled to death by undercaffeinated people.

Lydia raises an imperious eyebrow, silently demanding information while her mouth is full of cookie. 

"How do you figure?" Danny asks skeptically, cup arrested halfway to his shapely mouth.

Stiles tells them. 

"I was totally nice, didn't put my foot in my mouth _once_ , and hey, that lady? _Laura Hale_ ," he imparts, watching understanding dawn over their faces. "So I mentioned I remembered her, and what a kickass lacrosse player she is, and _she_ was nice enough, even if she clearly doesn't know me from Scott. All Derek Hale bothered to do was glare at me. He is an asshole," he concludes, viciously stamping back the flare of hurt in his chest. It's nothing he didn't expect. 

He ignores the others' bemused looks, takes his own coffee (still delicious, _damn it_ ) and skulks back to his desk, piles of paperwork closing safely around him, hiding him from the world. At least from now on he won't have to worry about going into the shop; Derek obviously couldn't care less about him. They can just be barely civil at each other while Stiles retrieves whatever he went in for, and leave it at that. Stiles is fine with it. He is. Just _fine_.


	4. Chapter 4

A week later, they get the Granger project, and before Stiles knows it, Christmas is around the corner. Literally. Three days away. And Stiles hasn't a single present sourced, not to mention bought, and _how_ could he have missed Lydia and Allison going nuts with the decorating? There's even a small menorah in deference to Jemima, even though she's told them a hundred times that she really doesn't mind that the entire office looks like Christmas exploded in it. Stiles had known, hypothetically, that the time was coming, but he'd been spending so much time on the construction site, and then leaving only to hole himself up in the office, that it's amazing he even notices _now_. 

It's been a busy few months. Eyre spends her days gleefully knocking into Stiles' knees, now that her head can reach them, and she has become as much a staple at the office as Stiles himself. Stiles wonders sometimes, in the dead of night, when he's trying to convince his aching, overtired body to give it a rest already, whether someone hadn't really been looking out for him, when Lavinia got pregnant. He hadn't known just how badly he'd needed something other than his job to center his life around, until Eyre had bundled into it. Eyre requires a strict schedule of walks and food and naps, and it drags Stiles out of the office when he would have otherwise stayed behind, buried neck-deep in research, makes sure he himself sticks to some kind of regime. And then there are the nights, Eyre's warm weight next to him, back pressed to his side in the too-big bed until somehow, without even realising, he nods off to the quiet huffs of her breath.

There have been no more visits to the coffee shop. It's not _entirely_ intentional, because no one could possibly accuse Stiles of inventing excuses, now that the firm is firing on all cylinders. Still, Stiles has become quite proficient in arranging circumstances just so someone else would do the honours when it's coffee time. He's kind of proud of himself, how little difference it makes to his life. This is great. This is just what he wanted: to be left alone to get on with things, and for people to stop making his life into some ridiculous fairy tale. He's got _far_ more important things to worry about -- like what the fucking hell he's going to buy Lydia for Christmas, because she takes 'picky' and runs with it faster than the speed of light. His dad is easy -- it'll be a new pair of gloves, a warm, soft scarf, because a sheriff's job means going through those at a rate that would be suspicious in another line of work. 

In the end, he falls back on his default setting and gets everyone gift vouchers, promising himself guiltily that he'll do something thoughtful and special for their birthdays. He even programs alarms for himself in his computer two weeks before each. It doesn't disperse the uneasy feeling of failure in his gut, but it appeases it a little. He likes giving gifts to the people he cares about. He likes taking his time and looking for a perfect, special little something; it makes him happy to think of the looks on their faces when they receive it, a gift tailor-made just for them. He feels almost... cheated out of the warm buzz of contentment it normally gives him, and he's maybe in a bit of a mood when he leaves the office that night, Eyre trotting at his heel. He's starving, and he's cold, and he needs something sweet and soothing, comfort food. So when he drives past The Pack and sees the inviting glow of their lights, he just can't help himself.

He pushes open the door with just a tiny spark of trepidation, because god, this is one time he is _not_ up for being made to feel like an idiot -- but apparently the three months he has avoided the place for have brought about some changes (like the late night opening time, which Stiles wouldn't have thought would work at all in a place like Beacon Hills -- but in actuality most of the tables are taken, with couples feeding each other bites of cheesecake, groups of young people chatting over coffee and hot chocolate, other people sitting on their own, pecking away at their laptops. It's -- not unusual per se, and Stiles spares a moment to wonder whether people had just been waiting for something like The Pack to turn up so they could take advantage). 

Another change is that neither Laura nor Derek are anywhere to be seen. Instead, the cash register is manned by a tall, lanky guy with a tangle of chestnut curls on his head and lovely blue eyes that Stiles recognises straight away. 

"Isaac. Isaac Lahey, right?"

Isaac blinks and squints, and then a really nice smile takes over his face and makes his eyes twinkle. 

"Hi! Yeah, that's me. And you're... Stiles, right? You were in the year above me?"

Stiles nods, hazy memory crystallizing. Isaac had been on the lacrosse team with him and Scott, had warmed the bench for most of his junior year before Stiles' year had graduated.

"I thought you were in San Francisco, man," Isaac says, and yeah, right, Stiles is reminded that Beacon Hills still isn't quite big enough that everyone doesn't know everyone else's business. 

He shrugs. "I came back after graduating. I loved the big city, but I missed this place more. What about you?"

Isaac shifts a little, and Stiles thinks he looks embarrassed. "I'm taking night classes at the local college," Isaac says, sounding a mixture of resigned and defiant. 

Stiles isn't going to ask. Sometimes, being a grown-up sucks. You have to make decisions that always leave a part of you stranded, cut off. Stiles knows that Isaac's father died years ago in a car accident, and Isaac was left with the big family house to manage; knows, too, that Isaac's mother died many years before that. Isaac probably can't afford to go away to school, having to work full time just to keep the house, not to mention what his grades must have been like in senior year because of that...

...And now it's high time Stiles stopped poking his nose in other people's business. They've all got to do what they've got to do. He could have stayed in San Francisco, if he wasn't worried about his dad being all on his own. And Lydia might have been an international jetsetter or worked for the Pentagon or made a killing on the stock market, if she hadn't wanted to stick to the one constant in her life: her friends. Compromises are what adulthood is made of. 

"Hey, that's cool, buddy," Stiles says instead, smiling easily. "What classes are you taking?"

Isaac seems to relax a little under Stiles' unassuming, easy understanding. "I'm taking Business classes mostly, Finance, Economics, that kind of thing."

"How's that going?"

They chat easily for a little while; Stiles is the only customer at the counter, and Eyre is perfectly content to sprawl over his feet, like she's keeping him grounded. 

"Anyway, what can I get you?" Isaac asks after a few minutes, looking happy and content, clearly enjoying his job. It's nice to see. Stiles gives him his order, waits patiently while Isaac rings him up and then goes to make his coffee.

"You holding down the place on your own tonight?"

Isaac's shoulders make an aborted twitch towards the door behind him. "Nah, Erica's on shift, too, but it's fairly quiet so she's doing some stock taking in the back."

Stiles looks around at all their customers, and wonders what a busy shift must be like for these guys. Isaac catches him looking, and grins. "Yeah, this place is hopping. Derek and Laura had to take on more staff last week to keep up."

"Good for them," Stiles murmurs. The place is great, and their produce is quality. He'd be an asshole to begrudge them their success. 

Isaac sets his coffee and bag of muffins on the counter before him, and Stiles is just about to get going when the staff door behind Isaac opens and a blond woman swishes out, uniform t-shirt clinging tightly to her curves. She seems in the middle of a conversation with someone else -- obviously the man who follows her out. They both sound smart and professional, competent. It's pretty awesome. Stiles enjoys seeing people be good at what they do. 

"All right, Erica, you got that, yeah?" the man says, and Erica nods confidently. 

"Absolutely, boss."

_Boss?_ Interesting. The man looks around then, straight at him, as if having caught the stray tail of that thought.

"Evening," he says easily, eyes trailing quickly up and down Stiles' body, and then repeating the journey, slowing down. Stiles feels a blush coming on. It's been quite a while since anyone this good-looking had paid him this much attention. It's... He's not going to lie. It's hella flattering.

"Hi," Stiles says, grinning. So he's enjoying this. Sue him. "I don't think I've seen you around here before."

The guy smiles back. It's slow, and shows a lot of teeth. It's strangely thrilling. "No, you wouldn't have. I'm Edward, Edward Hale. I just moved here a few weeks ago."

Another Hale. Oh, boy. Stiles very seriously considers turning on his heel and fleeing, because this is surely way more hassle than he needs. But the guy is tall and broad, even if his shoulders aren't as vast as Derek's, and there's a definite suggestion of powerful muscles under his pale blue button-down shirt. He's got honey-blond hair, and his eyes are almost the same colour as his shirt -- and currently fixed on Stiles' face with unmistakable intent. 

You know what? This could be fun. Stiles hasn't had this kind of fun in a frustratingly long while. Edward clearly finds Stiles attractive, and it's no hardship to look at him, either. As long as they're upfront with each other about their expectations (vis-a-vis scorching-hot sex, plenty thereof, and that being about it), what harm could it possibly do? _And_ , Stiles hasn't made a fool of himself _once_ , yet. It's looking like his luck might be on the up.

He smiles back, looking at Edward through his lashes, exercising flirtation skills that, while rusty, used to net him quite a bit of action back in San Francisco. 

"Well, Edward. I'm just about to have this cup of coffee right here. Perhaps you'd like to keep me company while I do?"

He thinks he hears a stifled snort from Erica's direction, but fuck it, he doesn't even care if everyone knows what he's angling for. He's a grown-up, damn it. He deserves to get at least some of the perks.

Edward's smile turns sly, eyes growing heavy-lidded. Oh, yeah. This is going to be _so_ good. "I'd like that," Edward purrs, leaning closer. "Suppose you tell me what to call you, too?"

Stiles tries and probably fails to stop a flush from burning his ears. "Stiles," he says, offering a hand. 

Edwards takes it, holding on for a moment too long. "Stiles. How delightful to meet you."

Of course, because this is Stiles' life, even if he'd forgotten that pertinent fact for the briefest of seconds, that is the exact moment when Derek Hale decides to come through the front door. Eyre's ears perk up, and she jumps to her feet, tail wagging. Stiles doesn't understand the urge at all, because Derek is positively glaring at him, like Stiles just pissed all over his floor. Seriously, _what_ is the guy's problem?! Stiles huffs, annoyed. At his side, he can feel Edward's eyes darting between him and Derek, taking the strange standoff in. 

Fuck this noise.

He turns back, smiling at Edward like nothing is out of the ordinary at all. "About that coffee?" he says, pointedly cheerful. Edward blinks, and the smile is back, even though it's decidedly more reined in than just a moment ago.

"I would like nothing more, but the boss seems like he's got something on his mind. Perhaps we could take a rain check?"

_Damn and double blast,_ Stiles thinks, trying not to look as put-out as he feels. "Sure," he says, resigned to probably never finding out what those teeth feel like nibbling on his neck. He makes to leave, reaching for the coffee and muffins he no longer feels like, but Edward stops him with a hand on his arm, warm through Stiles' jacket. 

"Are you free tomorrow evening, around seven?" he asks, voice low and intimate. Stiles turns, pleasantly surprised. 

"I am, yes," he answers with a smile, resolutely ignoring the glowering presence he can feel at his back. Eyre tugs on her leash a little, nosing closer to Derek. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles sees him look down for a long moment, before letting out a rough exhale and offering Eyre his hand to sniff at. She does, happily, and Derek's face softens into that look Stiles remembers way better than he ought to. Derek scratches gently at her ears, the side of her neck, strong, nimble fingers ruffling through her fur until she's pressing into his leg, tongue lolling in bliss.

Stiles doesn't realise he'd been staring until Edward says, "Good, then, it's a date." 

Derek's head snaps back up, and oh, boy, that scowl is back, and it brought friends. Stiles blinks at him, confused and a little hurt -- what, Derek doesn't think Stiles is good enough to go out with his relatives, now?

"Yes," he says decisively, resisting the urge to stare Derek down as he confirms, "It's a date." On a whim, he grabs the pen he spies behind the counter, scrawling his number on the edge of a paper bag and underlining it for effect. Edward sends him such a smouldering look that it could probably light Stiles' clothes on fire if he held it for long enough.

Something strange flashes in Derek's eyes when Stiles turns to leave, and his arm twitches, like an aborted move. He says nothing, though, and Stiles grits his teeth and brushes past him, tugging on Eyre's leash when she tries to linger by Derek's side. 

He fights the empty, aching feeling in his chest, that even the memory of Edward's charged look can't disperse, all the way home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating. Nothing that warrants Explicit yet, but I'll be honest with you: it's only a matter of time. :D

"Holy god," Stiles yelps the next morning, flattening himself to the door of his office when he stumbles in, still half-asleep, to find Laura Hale in the visitors' chair. She smiles at him, showing just as many teeth as Edward, but not half as enticing as when Edward did it. "What, have you come to warn me off your cousin, too? I mean, I assume he's a cousin, I don't remember you having any brothers other than--I mean, uh, can we strike that from the record? it's not like I make a point of memorising your family tree or anything--"

"Stiles, shut up," Laura says, taking mercy on him, and Stiles sags with relief.

"Thanks. I'm not good with mornings."

And then he seriously considers kissing her when she holds up a takeaway cup of coffee from her shop, and now that he has the visual, Stiles' nose finally identifies the smell that had been pleasantly teasing him all the while. 

"You are a goddess," he moans, making grabby hands until she hands it over, then chugs half of it in one go, uncaring that it burns his mouth a little. "Jesus fuck, I needed that."

Laura looks around hopefully. "Eyre not with you?"

Stiles pulls the coffee cup from his mouth long enough to say, "No, she's having her monthly check-up and mom-daughter time." And then immediately feels guilty when Laura's face falls. "Maybe I can bring her by the shop this afternoon, after she's done?"

The urge to kick himself at his stupid offer -- like Laura would care -- subsides when he sees the way Laura's entire face lights up. Apparently she does appreciate the offer.

"If you like dogs so much, why not get your own?" he asks, genuinely curious.

Laura's expression changes into one that unmistakably means business. "Funnily enough, that's part of the reason I'm here to see you."

Stiles stares muzzily at her. "You can't have Eyre," he says plaintively. 

Laura snorts, leaning back in her chair. "Much as I adore Eyre, it's actually you that can help me out. I want to hire your firm to oversee the building work on the old Hale house. Derek and I decided to restore it. I'm sure you've been by, I don't think anyone living in Beacon Hills doesn't know its no more than a burnt-out husk right now. It was too much hassle to rebuild it while we were in LA, but now that me and Derek have come back -- well, we'd like to not have to live in the tiny apartment we're renting now, and neither of us can do much supervising while we're working full time. Not to mention that we know fuck-all about construction work."

This is not what Stiles was expecting at all. He can't deny it gives him a thrill, though, having Laura trust him.

And then, finally, the coffee kicks in, and his mind stirs to wakefulness. "What does your brother think about that?" he asks evenly, doing the best he can to keep his expression from closing down.

Laura looks at him like _he's_ the one not making sense. "What--you mean _Derek_? He's fine with it, why wouldn't he be? He's the one who said we should ask you."

Stiles just--blinks at her for a long minute, trying to wrap his mind around that piece of information.

"What?" he mutters under his breath, because wow, what?

Laura stares at him. "Stiles, are you under some delusion that Derek has a problem with you? Because I know he can be a bit standoffish with strangers, but I promise you, he doesn't."

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again. "Every time I've come into your shop, he glares at me like I stole his lunch. That doesn't seem indicative enough to you that he hates my guts?"

Laura, honestly, Laura drops her head in her hands. "Fucking hell," she mutters, then rubs at her forehead, pushing her hair back. "Stiles, I'm sorry. On behalf of my ridiculous brother, I'm sorry he made you feel this way. Coming back here, it brought back some issues for him that he'd thought he was over. It's nothing to do with you, you're a familiar face and I'm beginning to think that he has sort of been channelling his unease into, I don't know, keeping away from you?"

"That's a fucked-up thing to do," Stiles argues, but by the look on Laura's face, that's no argument against doing it in Derek's book.

Then something else occurs to him.

"Hang on. Hang on, no, you've got to have it wrong, because I'm not a familiar face. You heard him, he said he didn't remember me."

Laura, if it's possible, looks even more aggravated. "Oh, he remembers you. Trust me on that."

Stiles, for maybe the first time in years, has no idea what to say to that. "Uh, okay?" he ventures, knowing she can hear just how much he doesn't believe that. "Why would he say he didn't if he did?"

Laura sighs, exasperated. "Who knows why Derek does anything? It's not like rationality is something he has an affinity for."

They sit there for a moment, looking at each other and pondering the tangled mess of issues that is Derek Hale. Stiles feels a strange kinship to Laura just then, grateful that apparently he isn't the only one baffled by Derek's moods. 

Then Laura shakes her head and straightens in her chair, fixing Stiles with a serious look. "So? Will you take on the project?" She doesn't say 'please', but it's loud and clear in her tone, the way she leans forward hopefully. Stiles is still taken aback by the fact that _Derek_ had been the one to suggest they hire the Consultancy -- but he also can't deny that he's really flattered by it. He knows they can do the job; and if Laura is wrong, if Derek does have a problem with him, it will be easily resolved by having Lydia, or even Allison, take his place. The risk is minimal, and the benefit tempting -- if they do a good job, they will be able to move on to consulting for and overseeing renovation projects. It's win-win.

So he stands and offers Laura his hand. "Yes. We'll take the job."

"Excellent," Laura says, satisfaction clear in her voice, shaking Stiles' hand with a firm, warm grip. "Meet us at the house tomorrow at nine? We can switch the early shift with Edward."

Stiles gets a twist of anticipation in his gut at the reminder of his date tonight. Fuck, he's going to have to drive Eyre home beforehand and just hope she doesn't decide to destroy his shoes in retaliation for spending the evening -- or the entire night, if her owner (please, god) gets lucky -- alone. 

Laura's eyes are narrowed on him when he refocuses, bright and considering. Stiles isn't going to blush. He isn't. He's a grown-up, he's allowed to think inappropriate thoughts about a person who has indicated, at some length, that they are more than amenable to being the object thereof. He braces himself to be warned off, or chastised, or interrogated about his intentions.

But all Laura says is, "See you and Eyre later," and walks out with a purposeful stride. Stiles huffs out the breath he'd been holding, daring to relax a little. He's being ridiculous. Just because he has a date with one Hale doesn't mean that he's going to get his head chewed off by any of the other two -- they're all consenting adults here. Derek Hale can just keep his objections, whatever they might be, to himself.

\---

Stiles picks Eyre up right on schedule. The vet has no concerns, or any other comments to make besides, "Keep going just as you have been, Stiles, she's doing great." Stiles feels accomplished and happy and at peace with the world, anticipation starting to set up shop at the knowledge that in just a couple of hours he's going on a real, honest-to-god _date_ for the first time in... he doesn't actually remember when he last went on a date that wasn't a version of 'this is my room, and this is my bed, let me introduce the two of you properly.' So he is going to enjoy this extra-hard, all puns intended. 

He and Edward hadn't arranged a place to meet, so swinging by The Pack with Eyre will kill two birds with one stone -- make Laura (and Eyre) happy, and finalise the details. And, if he's honest, he's looking forward to seeing Edward again, to the thrill of Edward's eyes on him, promising _all_ sorts of delights. He wants to get laid so much he's aching with it, an emptiness that he had trained himself to ignore but that has never quite gone away. (Sometimes, not even when he's getting fucked, when he has a cock balls-deep inside him, filling him to the brim. He isn't thinking about that. He doesn't want to understand what that means, doesn't want to have to deal with it, to face those kinds of realisations. He can put them off if he wants to, damn it.)

The moment he walks in the coffee shop and sees Edward's face, though, his good mood drains right out of him. Edward hasn't said a word, but Stiles can already see he's going to cancel: it's in the slumped set of his shoulders, the way his mouth droops in the corners. 

Edward sees him see it, and Stiles has to wonder what his own face must show for Edward to get such a look on his. 

"I'm so sorry," Edward says, abandoning the counter and coming forward, placing a hand on Stiles' elbow and nudging him gently towards the wall of windows. "Something came up."

Eyre takes advantage of Stiles' distraction, slips her leash out of his slack fingers and runs straight to Laura, who greets her with a wide, delighted grin. 

Abandoned by his support, Stiles braces himself. "Look, if you've changed your mind, that's totally fine, you don't have to--"

"No!" Edward interrupts, ducking his head to look Stiles in the eye. "No, I haven't, not at all. I would like nothing better than to spend the next few hours with you. It's just, it's an emergency. I would have left already, but Laura said you were coming by and I wanted to wait to tell you myself."

Stiles can't help but be mollified by the pleading sincerity in Edward's eyes. He smiles a little. "Hey, man, it's fine. These things happen. You have my number, right? So call me when you get it sorted out."

The look Edward sends him is pathetically grateful. He squeezes Stiles' hand, long fingers lingering for another moment before he lets go. 

"I promise, as soon as I'm done," he says, and really, what can Stiles say to that?

Edward gives him one last small smile, then swipes a stuffed messenger bag and a green canvas coat from behind the counter and disappearing out of the door. Stiles is left standing there, not quite bereft, but there's no denying that he's terribly disappointed. 

Laura straightens from where she had almost been rolling on the floor with an ecstatic Eyre and walks over, straightening her hair. 

"Derek, if you want to go, it's fine, I've got it now," she says, and oh, wow, how had Stiles missed the fact that Derek is behind the bar again? He looks over, but Derek's head is down, and he's working through an order. It doesn't look deliberate, but Laura is frowning at him, which must mean it is. She would know, Stiles supposes.

" _Derek,_ " she says pointedly, and Derek huffs. Impressively, he manages to make it sound like a swearword.

"Back off, Laura," he grunts, and Laura narrows her eyes at him, but steps away, slipping gracefully under the counter and pushing the staff door open.

"I'm going to get some more coffee," she announces -- unnecessarily, Stiles thinks, but it results in Derek tossing away the cloth he'd used to wipe the rumbling beast that is the machine, and sighing like it pains him to live.

Stiles fidgets a little, bends over to pick up Eyre's leash when she comes to lean on his leg. 

"So I'm just gonna..." he gestures at the front door vaguely, feeling superfluous and wondering why he bothers.

Before he can even turn around properly, though, Derek slinks under the counter (just as gracefully as Laura, and Stiles absolutely does not gape at the show), and in another moment he's standing between Stiles and the door, looking angry and determined and ever-so-slightly awkward.

"Stiles," he says, and Stiles swallows in trepidation even as he tries to fight off the shiver his name in Derek's voice sends down his spine. 

"Yeah?" he replies, tentative, waiting to see if Derek will give him a clue as to what the hell is going on. 

Derek, however, just stands there, looking at him like he's waiting for _Stiles_ to do a party trick. Then there's a loud bang from behind the closed door, and they both jump a little (although Derek hides it better). Derek clears his throat.

"I was wondering if, since Edward had to go, and you were planning on coffee, whether you might not like to have that coffee anyway. With me."

Stiles blinks at him, amazed. Then, because his brain can't come up with anything, and Derek seems to expect an answer, his mind decides to take up the slack. "Dude, you know that Edward and I, that was a date we planned, right?"

Stupid, stupid mouth, always getting him into trouble. Derek glowers, looking furious for a long, fraught moment before his face smooths out again. He looks like he wants nothing more than to not be having this conversation, and Stiles braces himself for the 'forget it' barked at him, when Derek shifts on his feet and looks at him with this unreadable expression that, for whatever strange reason, makes Stiles' heart beat faster. 

"Maybe we could just talk," Derek forces out. 

Stiles very seriously considers saying 'no' in a firm tone of voice and walking away. But Derek looks awkward standing there, an odd look in his eyes, something that on anyone who isn't Derek Hale, and thus can't be wearing that expression around Stiles, Stiles would classify as 'hopeful'. 

One cup of coffee. Whom could it hurt? He'd be in a public place, and he can always leave if the situation starts getting too ridiculous. 

Besides. He's still hellishly curious about what Laura said that morning, not just about Derek suggesting they hire Stilinski Consultancy, but also about the little matter of Derek lying to Stiles when he told him he didn't remember him.

"Fine," Stiles says at last, shrugging. "Okay. Why the hell not."

Holy shit, is that gratitude on Derek Hale's face? Surely not. Stiles can't help but wonder what could possibly be so important that Derek has gone to all this effort just to get Stiles to talk to him. 

Well. It looks like he's about to find out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, an actual conversation! :D I just hope it's a worthy reward for your patience in waiting for it.

Derek slides back behind the bar (Stiles swallows dryly at the sight of Derek bending and twisting so fluidly -- what? He's a twenty-something guy, and Derek Hale is _smoking_ hot), and fires up the machine, making them two large coffees to go. Stiles appreciates the thought -- he would feel uncomfortable talking to Derek here, in what amounts to his territory. In two shakes of a lamb's tail, Derek is back on Stiles' side of the counter and handing Stiles his coffee.

"There's a park about two blocks from here. We could go there, let Eyre stretch her legs," Derek suggests.

Stiles smiles at him. It's a mixed thing, pleasure that Derek is thinking of Eyre mixed with a hint of bitterness that Stiles himself doesn't merit the same consideration in Derek's eyes. But it's as good a plan as any, and Stiles knows that Eyre is itching to go for a run, after being cooped up at the vet the whole morning. 

"Sure. Sounds good," he says, and watches as cautious happiness blooms across Derek's face. That he should be so easily pleased by such a small thing as Stiles acknowledging that his plan has worth is surprising, and a little sad, because even if he doesn't dislike Stiles as much as Stiles had supposed, Stiles is still not one of Derek's favourite people. 

They make their way out of the shop (Derek holds the door open for him. Stiles plain _refuses_ to feel flattered or read more into it than just Derek being helpful because Stiles' hands are full), and head South. Stiles knows just which park Derek means; his mom used to take him there when he was little, there's a nice playground in one corner of it that used to be the focal point of the neighbourhood, where all the kids and their moms and dads congregated. 

The days are much shorter now, and by the time they get there, the sun is slanting down already, the last of its rays gilding what's left of the grass, the bare branches of the trees, turning the air into spun gold. It had been a fairly warm day for late December, but it's getting colder by the hour, and it's not really an evening when they can feasibly sit down on a bench without freezing stiff. So they take to the pathways, and, seeing as the park is almost empty now, Stiles unhooks the leash from Eyre's collar and lets her run off to cavort in the mess. She'll need a bath afterwards, but it's not like Stiles has much of anything else to do tonight now that his plans have fallen through. 

It's surprisingly nice to walk with Derek, sipping his coffee and waiting for Derek to find his words. Sure, the silence is a little awkward, but not cripplingly so. There's an air of anticipation to it; and the warm body next to his, not close enough to touch but still close enough to radiate delicious heat, is no hardship to endure.

They're almost halfway through the park when Derek takes a deep, audible breath, and starts speaking.

"I had a talk with Laura, after she came back from your office." He says 'talk' like it should be spelled as 'a lecture on my many failings as a human being'. Stiles bites his lip to hide his smile, but Derek catches him anyway. A muscle tics in Derek's jaw, but Stiles gets the impression it's more to hide his own smile than because he's trying not to take a chunk out of Stiles' hide.

When Derek hesitates again, Stiles decides that his input is definitely required if this conversation has any chance of being done today.

"Oh yeah? What about?"

Derek looks down at his coffee, his feet, the rubble of the pathway, anywhere but at Stiles. 

"About the fact that you're under the impression that I don't like you."

Stiles swallows, mouth suddenly too dry despite the coffee. 

"You realise that the only reason I am under that impression is because you fostered it, right?"

Derek's lips twist, and he looks like he's gritting his teeth. 

"I don't hate you, Stiles," he says at last, a little rough. Certainly compelling.

"Oh," Stiles says cleverly.

Derek sighs. "I'm sorry that I made you think I did. It has nothing to do with you, and it was unfair of me to let you believe it."

It's Stiles' turn to be silent, getting over his shock at hearing Derek say something like this, and trying to digest it. He reins in his mouth through the first three responses that come to mind, which is downright _mature_ of him, and he hopes Derek appreciates his restraint. The fourth thing is just too tempting to hold back, however.

"Laura said that something happened with you, before you left Beacon Hills, I mean?" he says, and immediately bites the inside of his cheek, wanting desperately to take the words back when Derek's face closes right down. He hadn't realised how different Derek had looked, how much more open and approachable, before it's all yanked back and locked away. "I'm sorry," Stiles adds hurriedly. "It's none of my business. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."

Derek swallows uneasily, eyes fixed to the distant trees lining the ornamental lake. "I understand that Allison Argent works in your firm," he says, which Stiles takes to be a classic evasion technique, and resigns himself to his fate.

"Yes, she does. She and her family moved here a while after you left. I didn't realise that you knew her."

"Actually, I think you'll find that Allison's extended family moved here before she did. About six months before we left, in fact."

"Oh. I didn't know that," Stiles says, willing to wait him out and see where this is going. 

Derek nods jerkily, once, twice. "Has Allison ever mentioned her aunt, Kate?" he asks, and there's an odd, almost fearful note in his voice.

Stiles does him the courtesy of thinking before he answers. "Um, no, I don't think so? It doesn't ring a bell."

Derek relaxes, just a touch. "We used to date," he says dismissively. "It didn't end well." 

It's such a turnaround, the way he sounds, the way his whole posture changes, unwinds, that Stiles doesn't buy for a second that this is all there is to it. 

"Uh-huh," he says. Derek seems to find this enough, though, because he drinks the rest of his coffee almost cheerfully. 

Stiles has never been one to let sleeping wolves lie, however. "So I take it that you thought Allison had told all of us the gossip about you when we first found out you were back?" 

Just like that, the tension is back in Derek's body. It's still not as fraught as before, which only serves to prove Stiles' theory that there is a lot more to this, and it all has to do with this Kate.

"The thought might have crossed my mind," Derek allows, which for him is a huge 'bullseye, well done' sign. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Dude, I know this is a small town and everything, but we really aren't all living in each other's pockets. People are allowed their privacy. Mostly. Unless Mrs Sokoloff gets involved, she's the worst busybody you're ever likely to meet."

Derek's mouth twitches. "Noted," he rumbles, and Stiles grins. 

They walk on, taking the turn that would lead them down a parallel lane and back the way they came. Eyre runs ahead of them, barking gleefully, chasing urban squirrels up the trees along the walkway. Derek's mood seems to have lifted, now that Stiles has confirmed that his dirty laundry is still firmly in the hamper, but Stiles can't help but wonder how bad this break-up must have been, for Derek to react so violently to even the mention of it all this time later. Still, he has to give credit where credit's due.

"Thanks for talking to Laura about hiring us for the renovation project," he says, after a few minutes of walking in easy silence. 

Derek turns to look at him, surprised, although whether it's because Stiles brought it up, or because Laura had told him about it, Stiles doesn't know. After a moment, Derek shrugs.

"Isaac might have mentioned that you're getting a reputation for beyond-reproach work. I know we can trust you with the house."

This time, there really is no hiding just how happy this makes Stiles to hear. 

"That's... nice of you to say," he manages. 

Derek's face does a complicated thing, sort of stuck between half-pleased and half-pissed. Emboldened by Derek's earlier openness, though, Stiles decides he's had enough of being put off.

"What?" he demands. "What, what is with that face?"

"There's nothing wrong with my face," Derek mutters, but he won't meet Stiles' eyes.

"Yeah, I'll say," Stiles snorts, because yeah, there's _nothing_ wrong with Derek's face, except for how mobile and, dare he say, beguiling it is. Derek's head jerks up, but Stiles ignores him and ploughs on. "No, but seriously. You can't apologise for doing something and then turn around and just do it again. Out with it. What did I say?"

"You mean in general, or--" Derek starts, but Stiles just gives him one of his looks that has been known to freeze even Jackson in place. Derek sighs. "You sounded so surprised," he mutters, and oh, boy, now Stiles recognises that emotion. Derek looks _hurt_. God help him, he _hurt Derek's feelings_. What is his _life_?

What's even worse is just how awful he feels about that. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. _No, Stiles. Bad crush_.

"Hey, buddy, I'm sorry, but can you blame me? You've had me conditioned to expect your Glare of Painful Death every time you look at me, you can't just turn around and be a nice guy as well. I need a period of readjustment so I don't swoon."

As soon as the words are out, he wants to smack himself on the head. Damn it, does he have, like, default 'Talking to Derek' settings, 'ignore him completely' vs. 'make a fool of yourself'? So damn unfair. It does make Derek smirk, however, and that's a startlingly, unfairly attractive look on him. Stiles fidgets with his empty coffee cup a little, glad to have something to do with his hands. Of fucking course, because this is Derek Hale, he reaches over and takes the cup from him, fingers brushing Stiles' when he pulls it away (Stiles absolutely does not shiver), and takes a slight detour, disposing of both empties neatly in a trash can at the edge of the grass. Deprived of his shield, Stiles sticks both his hands in the pockets of his coat, looking at the darkening sky and hoping the fading light hides his blush, or that Derek attributes it to the crispness of the air. 

They walk quietly together a little while longer, nearing the three-quarters point before they leave the park. Stiles knows he should keep his mouth shut, preserve the strangely fragile peace between them, but the question is itching on the inside of his mind, making him twitchy. Derek throws him a curious look that Stiles chooses to take as invitation, regardless of the intent behind it. 

"Why did you lie and say you didn't remember me?" he says, close to a whisper for whatever unknown reason. 

Derek stuffs his hands in his pockets and folds into himself a little, like the question had somehow slipped under his armour and stabbed his soft underbelly. Eyre, the traitor, chooses this moment to trot over and butt her head into Derek's knee, rubbing her whole body against him like an overgrown feline. Derek's mouth curls into a soft smile, and his posture loses its rigidity. He seems easy once again, approachable. Stiles pats Eyre's head in thanks, resolutely ignoring the way the side of his hand brushes against Derek's knee. Derek crouches and fists his hands gently into Eyre's fur, scratching the back of her neck and leaning in, nose almost touching hers. She naturally takes this as permission to lick his mouth, his chin, while Derek squirms away and lets out a soft huff of breath that Stiles recognises as a choked-off laugh. Stiles is entirely unprepared for the burst of warmth in his chest at the sight, for how happy it makes him to see the two of them getting on so well. (He buries away the tiny twinge of jealousy, that Eyre is allowed closer to Derek than Stiles ever would be. It's just the way it is.) 

He clears his throat, and Derek looks up a little guiltily, proof enough that he knows full-well what he's doing. He lets go of Eyre and straightens, turning to walk down the path again. It's not like he's running away, though; it's slower, his body language open, like he's inviting Stiles to fall into step with him. Stiles should not find the show so endearing. He takes the invitation for what it is, taking the place at Derek's side that has been left open for him. 

"I don't know why I said that," Derek confesses suddenly, surprising Stiles not a little. "It's not like I could possibly forget you, this small, hurt thing, the way you sat there in my car, curled up like you were trying not to bleed over the upholstery. I knew about your mom, of course, but knowing it and seeing the aftermath -- they were two very different things. You're not that kid anymore, I know that, but--look. Has something ever happened to you, something so small it ought to be completely insignificant, yet so big that it kind of changes you a little forever?"

Stiles swallows dryly. This is... Well, he didn't know what he expected Derek to say, but it certainly wasn't this quiet confession, sounding like he's baring his soul before Stiles. Stiles has no idea what to say--except that Derek asked him a question, didn't he. And what is Stiles supposed to say to that? How is he supposed to tell this man about what it had felt like for _him_ , sitting in that car, his emotions all over the place, broken up inside -- yet instead of a threat, sensing a wave of care enveloping him from the boy sitting at his left, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear stick, easy and confident. How can he tell Derek that their strange encounter had kind of changed his life, too, made the pain that little bit more bearable, given him the strength to believe in people again, to get on with a life he had thought was over?

He can't. He can't find the words, and it would be useless to even try. So he just says, "Yes," voice a little rough, full of too many things that it's too early in this tentative friendship to air, but his control is too raw to be able to hold them back. He can feel Derek's eyes fixed intently on him, boring through too many of his defences. He feels exposed -- but the shocking thing is, it's not unpleasant. It feels a little like letting someone in for the first time in too long, letting someone see underneath the cheerful mask he puts on every day, through to a hint of what lies beneath. 

Derek doesn't say another word, just walks quietly next to him, bypassing the coffee shop until they come to a stop next to Stiles' Jeep another half a block away. Stiles fights the urge to drag his feet, prolong the strange rapport between them. He opens the door to the Jeep instead, letting Eyre bound inside. When he turns, he finds Derek just a step away, looking at him with something that is part-hope, part-trepidation. He wonders what the hell to say, even opens his mouth once, but nothing comes out of it. Derek's eyes shift down for the briefest of moments before he looks up into Stiles' eyes again. 

"See you tomorrow?" Derek offers, sounding almost like he expects Stiles to tell him to fuck off, which, no. This, this is good. Maybe there's hope that they can be friends, after all.

"Yeah. See you tomorrow," Stiles says with a small, unfeigned smile. 

As is becoming a weird sort of habit, Stiles carries Derek's unreadable expression with him, all the way home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap between the previous chapter and this one; I had an rbb to finish, and to mod, and it's kept me busy. I sure hope you enjoy this! <3 
> 
> Also, turns out it's awesome that I decided to write this as a WIP. Means I can duck and roll with the punches the S02 finale dished out! ....And if you're wondering what that means, well. Keep reading. :D

"What? No, are you nuts?" Stiles demands, staring Derek down while Derek folds his arms and glares at him. "You can't paint a room mud-brown, Jesus Christ. Why would you even want to?"

"It's not mud-brown, it's chocolate brown, and I like dark colors," Derek states.

"Yeah, so you can brood in peace while languishing theatrically on burgundy chaise-longues," Stiles scoffs, ignoring the ridiculous fondness that comes over him when he thinks about the image, because it's stupid. And ridiculous. And kind of pathetic. 

Derek narrows his eyes, and purses his lips, and dear god, is that _pouting_? "Are you seriously pouting right now? Because I won't let you decorate your room à la Tacky Vampire Lair?"

Derek glares at him some more. "It's my room," he insists. Stiles throws his arms in the air.

"Why did I agree to do this again?" he moans to Allison, when she comes up to bring the up-to-date charts sent over by the architect's office the Hales had hired.

"Because you have a hard-on for the owner?" Allison suggests, and Stiles spends a frantic minute making sure Derek is nowhere around them.

"Damn it, Allison, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" he hisses. "He could have been right behind me!"

Allison smirks. "I didn't specify which owner, and it's ever so interesting to me how you jumped to the conclusion that I meant Derek Hale, not his sister. I didn't say anything when Lydia and Danny first started going on about it, but were they right? Are you--do you like him?"

"Sure," Stiles says, in a possibly-too-high a voice, not like he can help it. "Grumpy, growly, rude, infuriating. What's not to like?"

Allison raises an eyebrow, looking like she's putting pieces together, and shit, no, that is a _bad_ look on her, because it means Stiles is about to be put expertly on the spot.

"Oh my god, please don't say anything right now," he begs.

"You like him," Allison crows triumphantly, talking right over him. "God, Stiles, I can see it all over you. You only get this flustered around someone you don't know what to do about."

Stiles considers for a long moment just launching straight into his old stand-by, _denydenydeny_ , but yeah, Allison isn't Scott, and won't buy it for a second. 

"Maybe?" Stiles concedes, hoping it's enough to placate her for now. "Can we not talk about this here?"

Allison does back off, thank all the gods, but the look in her eyes -- yeah. This isn't over. This is merely an inconvenient time-out, as far as she's concerned. Stiles thinks frantically about something to distract her with, and, well, as it happens, there _is_ one thing that he hasn't managed to leave alone. 

"Um, Derek mentioned your aunt Kate the other day," he says awkwardly. 

Allison almost rears back in shock, which Stiles considers a bit of an overreaction to sudden mentions of extended family, but whatever. "He did? I didn't realise he knew her," she says, an odd note in her voice.

It's a surprise, because if you're dating someone, wouldn't your family know about it? Allison looks a little shifty, though, like there's something on her mind. Stiles wonders what to say, whether to out Derek's relationship with Kate, or maintain whatever privacy they had felt was necessary.

"Something wrong?" he asks instead, hoping that asking will give him a clue as to what is going on.

Allison bites her lip. "Um, no?" she says. It's not the least bit convincing, and Stiles is debating whether to call her out on it, when he can actually see her decide to talk about it after all. "She's a bit of a black sheep," Allison says quietly at last, looking around to make sure no one is standing near them. "She had an affair with a much older man when she was seventeen, right after she and Dad moved here, before Mom and I followed them. I think she was cheating on her boyfriend with him, don't know for sure. No one would tell me. I did some digging, but never did find any details."

Stiles stares at her, and processes this, and doesn't know what to say, because this is all starting to make an unpleasant kind of sense and he _really_ does not like where his deductions are taking him.

Allison shrugs, like she's trying to throw something off of her, some heaviness that has nothing to do with her big winter coat. "We don't talk much. I think she's into some really kinky stuff out East now. Not that there's anything wrong with that," she hurries to add -- she is one of the least prejudiced people Stiles knows, about anything. "It's just. Something about her makes me... uncomfortable. When Mom died, it was almost like she was _enjoying_ the attention the funeral brought. I once overheard her baiting Dad about Mom, laughing at him for caring so much." She swallows fitfully, looking away, and Stiles is _appalled_ that anyone could find pleasure in other people's suffering. 

He places a hand on Allison's arm, squeezing a little, hoping it's as reassuring as he means it to be. Allison smiles at him, a little watery, but with her backbone of steel in her eyes. It takes more than something like this to break her.

They are both keen to move on to more pleasant topics after that, but Allison's words have been embedded in Stiles' brain now, and he doesn't think he could forget them if he tried. His mind picks at them, over and over again, like a bad tooth that aches but that he can't leave alone. Could it be that Derek was the boyfriend Kate cheated on? The timing as he knows it fits -- but if it was, why was there... shame instead of anger in Derek's face when he talked about her? If it was Stiles, he would have been _pissed_ , no matter how much time had passed. There are bits of the story that are still missing, Stiles can sense it. 

He shouldn't. He shouldn't dig into this, but _damn_ , he is curious. He wants to know what kind of thing has the power to leave this kind of impression on someone like Derek, and he has never been able to leave well enough alone, he has been told often enough. He doesn't have to do anything about it. He just... needs to _know_ , and when the opportunity presents itself, he knows he will use it. 

He doesn't look at 'why' too closely. If he's honest, he doesn't really need to.

\---

Working for, and to Derek Hale's specifications, Stiles discovers, is surprisingly enjoyable. In a prickly kind of way, like petting a vaguely suspicious but not outright hostile hedgehog. Stiles would have thought that out of the two of them, Laura would be the picky Hale (although if anyone had asked him why, he would have been hard-pressed to say). The fact is that it's Derek who is always poking his nose into things, breathing down the workers' necks, jumping out from behind corners and glaring menacingly at people like they are cutting corners. It makes Stiles simultaneously want to tear his hair out (good thing it's barely grown out to more than half-an-inch in length, and there isn't enough to get a good grip on), and pet Derek on the head reassuringly (somehow, he seems to have become immune to the risk of being torn limb-from-limb by the grumpy, sourfaced, _constant_ presence). He is beginning to think that Laura's statement that they wouldn't have the time to personally supervise the job had been an overexaggeration.

Derek is intensely particular about the quality of materials being used. Which is fine, Stiles himself is extraordinarily picky at the best of times, but he still finds himself clashing with Derek over his pathological need to be in control all the time. He doesn't think it's Derek not trusting him, not least because Derek keeps poking at him for his opinion, enthusiastically interrupting _anything_ that Stiles needs to get done so he can come and weigh in on the most important of questions -- like magnolia vs ivory. Stiles wants to bang his head into a wall. 

"Seriously. Seriously?" Stiles demands when he finds himself staring at a stack of near-identical patches of dark-red carpet for the long, imposing oak staircase that rises from the hallway by the front door and leads upstairs. "Are you kidding me right now?"

Derek's eyebrows furrow. "No," he insists earnestly. "Come on, Stiles, which one goes best with the wood?"

Not for the first time that week -- that day, even -- Stiles wonders if Derek hit his head getting out of bed in the morning. The most baffling thing is, Derek actually listens. He's not just doing it to get his own opinion vindicated; he listens when Stiles points out something he missed, like how that particular shade of greenish-white makes the kitchen feel like a morgue, although how he missed _that_ is a mystery to Stiles.

"Look, I have to check and make sure the carrier beam they replaced is solid enough that the house won't collapse around your ears, which I think is more important than which shade of blood I-- _you_ will be walking up to get upstairs. But, um," he adds when Derek's face honest-to-god falls. "This one," he points to a beautiful shade of deep, jewel-toned red that somehow gives the impression of humming with energy. 

Derek looks down at Stiles' finger tapping the patch, and he smiles a little, soft, happy. It punches Stiles in the gut, how much he wants to see that smile all the time. Goddamn it, he thought he was over this thing.

"I like that one, too," Derek confesses quietly, like he's imparting a secret. He lifts his eyes, looks up at Stiles from under his eyelashes, and Stiles swallows dryly, feeling like he might need to lean on something solid so he doesn't sway in place. Derek is wearing a soft gray sweater under his leather jacket, and somehow it makes his eyes seem fathomless, deep enough to fold Stiles inside, keep him safe. It's ridiculous. Stiles should just--stop thinking altogether, holy crap.

"Okay, um, go order it, then," he stammers, and holds his breath a little as Derek grins at him and bounds off, shouting for Jemima, who is handling the interior design aspect of the renovation--and actually, shouldn't it be Jemima that Derek goes to for advice? Not that Stiles dislikes it as such, but. Gah, that man is a whole new level of confusing.

It doesn't occur to Stiles until much later that night, when he's on the verge of sleep, replaying the day in his head as he tends to, that Derek--Derek is _nesting_. He is friggin' nesting, he is throwing himself into making this house a home again with single-minded abandon. Not a day goes by that Derek isn't up at the site at one point or another, stomping around clutching a filofax that is bulging at the sides with notes on scraps of paper, printed-out advice, paint and fabric samples, things to look out for, ideas jotted on the edges of napkins. It's incredibly, unhealthily endearing. It makes Stiles want to catch his hand and hold it, slow him down a little, make him take a deep breath and eat something before throwing himself back into the fray. There is a permanent supply of The Pack coffee all day long at the site, but not much to eat, and Stiles wonders if Derek makes time for taking care of himself in between trying to be in five places at once. And yes, he is well aware how ironic that is, coming from him, who barely has time to eat himself -- but it makes him think longingly of a nice sit-down dinner, somewhere quiet, maybe that wonderful Italian place off the main road, the one where they make the most divine lasagna Stiles has ever tasted. He wants to watch Derek eat, and listen to him talk, and fill his glass when it's running empty.

Fuck. This crush thing? It's getting out of hand, but Stiles will be fucked if he knows how to make it stop.

\---

It's almost five days later when Stiles' phone rings. It's an unknown number, which at the moment isn't all that uncommon, but it still makes Stiles hesitate for a second before thumbing the screen to take the call.

"Stilinski."

There's the slightest pause. "Stiles?" the other person says, and Stiles has to actually stop and think for a second before he realises whose voice he's hearing. 

"Edward?"

"Hi, yeah, it's me. I'm so sorry I couldn't call before now. Things were... a little bit more complicated than anticipated. But I'm coming back into town tonight, and I was hoping -- do you want to go to dinner tomorrow evening?"

Stiles has to admit, the distance hasn't really made him any more or less excited for this to happen; he could be happy with things going either way. But it's an honest -- eager, even -- offer, and damn it, Stiles could do with a bit more socialising outside of work. 

"That would be lovely."

"Great! Can you pick me up from work? Around seven-thirty?"

"Absolutely. No problem."

"Fantastic. I'll book us a table."

Stiles is just about to say goodbye and hang up, but then Edward speaks again, low, enticing. "I'm looking forward to this."

And Stiles? Stiles is starting to, as well.

"Me too. See you tomorrow."

He hangs up the phone and just holds it for a moment, staring down at it. He... doesn't know how to feel. Ten days have passed since their date fell through, ten days filled with non-stop work, a whirlwind of getting stuff done, and endless bickering with the foreman, the workers, Jemima, Derek, leaving him hardly a moment for himself. He has never felt happier in his life. He loves this, the buzz of activity, feeling useful, seeing things come together. It's what he lives for; nothing makes him feel as thoroughly _alive_ as this. He is content with what he has; and if sometimes he watches wistfully as Derek strides away full of excitement to get started on the next in line of his pet projects, or puts his head together with Jemima over magazine cut-outs, or stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Laura, looking up at the half-finished house with a satisfied, proprietary look on his face, well, what of it? A man can dream.

It's not precisely a healthy way to keep going like this, though, even he knows it, though he doesn't _like_ that he knows it. Which is why a date will clear up the air a bit, let him focus on something else -- some _one_ else.

So he dresses carefully the next morning, a dove-gray shirt, nice charcoal-gray slacks, a green-gray tie that picks up highlights from both. He breaks out the designer fragrance Lydia got him last Christmas, after a trip to Europe "where all civilised men wear it, Stiles, I know you're a philistine and everything, but smelling nice isn't something you need to be ashamed of, you know." He squirts it on cautiously, but it's actually a really nice scent, fresh, woodsy, something herbal. It makes Stiles think of the Mediterranean, wonder if this is what the countryside around it smells like, bathed by warm sunshine and breezes carrying with them a hint of ripened vines, rain-moistened soil. It smells good on him, even he can work that one out.

He spends the day fielding increasingly audacious questions trying to ferret out his plans. He holds firm, though, is proud of the confused, irritated furrows he puts in Jemima and Lydia's brows. The only downpoint comes when Danny takes one look at him and declares that Derek Hale is a lucky man. Stiles has to pretend not to choke on his coffee, not that it works. 

"What are you talking about?" he wheezes.

Danny lifts both eyebrows, looking disappointed with his intelligence. "You're obviously going on a date, I thought-- _oh_ ," he says, clearly catching on that just because Stiles is going on a date, it doesn't automatically follow that it's a date with Derek frigging Hale (no matter how much Stiles wishes it did).

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because after that he's left alone, to stew in his own patheticness. He shakes it off around a quarter to seven, makes himself turn off his computer and get his coat. He's lucky that his dad agreed to take Eyre for the day, even when Stiles sprung it on him at the last moment. His dad had looked happy to do so, which simultaneously warmed Stiles to the bone and made him feel vaguely guilty, like he was a fraud. Because the truth is that, while he still isn't writing off having spectacular sex with Edward, he's not going to go out of his way to make that happen. If they hit it off, good. If they don't... Well. Stiles is happy with the way his life is. He isn't going to be heartbroken about it.

The drive to The Pack goes faster than he anticipated, and he is fifteen minutes early when he heads for the door, a flutter of anticipation making his breathing speed up. He forces it down, pushes the door open, smiles at Isaac behind the counter; then he heads for Edward, at the far end of the bar, talking to a tall, dark-haired man Stiles has never seen before. From the ease of Edward's stance, however, Stiles is willing to make an educated guess that he is about to meet yet another member of the Hale clan. 

Edward's whole face lights up when he sees Stiles, which, yeah, it does wonders for his self-esteem. 

"Hi, Stiles," he says, rounding the counter eagerly and stepping closer. They don't touch, but the possibility that they _might_ is heavy in the air.

"Sorry I'm early," Stiles says.

Edward waves a hand. "Not at all. I'm glad you made it. I'm just going to grab my coat. Hey, have the two of you met?"

The stranger at the bar has turned, and is observing Stiles curiously. He has the trademark striking eyes that seem to be a Hale family prerequisite, and there's a light goatee on his chin. It kind of suits him, and kind of doesn't, but he's handsome enough to pull off the duality of the image.

"I don't think we have," Stiles says, and offers his hand. "I'm Stiles, Stiles Stilinski."

The man takes his hand, and looks at him intently. Stiles feels like he sees far more than Stiles wants him to; but even if that's true, it must be to his liking, because his voice is mild and pleasant when he replies.

"Hello, Stiles," he says. "I'm Peter Hale."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... definitely wasn't meant to happen so soon. But apparently The Date really wanted to get written, and also it's amazing what a good chat with the right person can do. (Thank you, Jen Nova <3) Also I am enjoying writing Peter _way_ more than is healthy. :D

Stiles nods, shakes Peter's hand, is still shaking it when the door to the staff room bangs shut; and then he has a furious-looking Derek looming over him. How Derek manages to loom from all the way over at the other end of the bar is a mystery. Perhaps it's one of Derek's special skills.

He doesn't miss the way Derek's eyes travel excruciatingly slowly up and down his body, and end up glowering at where Stiles is still holding Peter's hand. He looks this close to vaulting over the bar and dragging Stiles away, which, good _god_ , it should _not_ be such an attractive look on him. Stiles maybe needs to have a stern talk with his libido that it finds this hot.

"Hi, Derek," he says, letting Peter's hand drop. It lingers a little, though, fingers stroking over his, and he frowns, looking back at the man. Peter has an interesting look on his face, jumping between him and Derek, half-surprise and half-delight and half-wicked, wicked mischief that makes Stiles blink at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Stiles," Derek growls. It's been a while since Stiles has heard that tone in Derek's voice; these days, he is much more amiable in his company. Derek's eyes travel from him to Edward to Peter and back; his expression, if possible, closes down even further.

Edward, apparently oblivious to the tension, drags his coat over his shoulders and looks at Stiles expectantly.

"Shall we go?" he offers eagerly. 

"Are the two of you going on a date?" Peter enquires easily. Stiles can't quite get a read on the look on his face, so he just shrugs. 

'Yeah, we'd planned to before Edward was called away. We're finally catching up," he says, turning to smile a little at Edward.

"Ah, young love," Peter says. Behind the bar, there is a choked sound -- but when Stiles turns to look, Derek's back is turned away and his hands are full of teabags that he's sorting into compartments. Something about the picture looks strained, pained, almost; but then Edward takes his arm and smiles, and Stiles can do nothing but follow. 

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Peter calls after them, and Stiles thinks he hears a crash from Derek's direction, but then Edward steers him out of the door and down the street, and Stiles puts it out of his mind.

Edward takes him to a little bistro off the beaten path. It's a local place, and Stiles spares a moment to wonder whose advice Edward must have sought to find it. It's kind of nice, the evidence that this evening is important to Edward, enough to make an effort.

Edward helps him with his coat when they walk through the door, eyes lingering over the suit Stiles chose to wear. Stiles feels a warmth rise in his cheeks, especially when Edward takes off his coat, too, to showcase a suit that is probably a little too light for this time of year, but that makes him look like an extra from The Talented Mr Ripley, all blond hair and blue eyes and elegance incarnate. The host takes them to their table, and Edward holds Stiles' chair out for him. Stiles.... doesn't have much practice, taking advantage of such a courteous gesture. He makes the best he can, ending up almost hovering off the chair until Edward pushes it in. 

They order wine; Edward makes a point of asking Stiles what he likes, instead of assuming he knows. The conversation is light, and engaging -- they talk about music, and once Edward finds out that Stiles loves to read, he spends the next half-hour encouraging him to talk about his favourite books. The wine is delicious, and so is the meal, perfectly cooked pasta carbonara for Stiles, rare steak for Edward. Edward tells Stiles about his time in New York, where he, Derek and Laura went to college together. Stiles finds out that Edward picked a Communications major, while Laura focused on Business and Entrepreneurship -- and also that it was Derek who studied Food Chemistry, who dragged Laura, and later Edward, back to Beacon Hills with him when he decided to open his own coffee place. He learns that Peter is a finance consultant, and that Laura contracted him to run some calculations for them. He learns that the Hales like to 'keep it in the family', whatever 'it' is.

They order coffee, and linger over dessert. Edward smiles at him again, blue eyes twinkling, and places his hand over Stiles' on top of the table, completely unselfconscious. It is the perfect date.

It's the perfect date, and it is _awful_. Stiles looks at Edward, and he wants _so badly_ to like him, wants so, so much to feel that spark, that buzz of energy when you meet someone compatible, someone who gets you, who makes you laugh, who makes you want to get up from the table and run, rush out under the rain, catch their hand and drag them with you, laughing madly as they follow. He wants the spark in Edward's eyes to be a touch less restrained, a bit more wild; to dare him to do things he never would have, to make him want to press him against the nearest surface and devour him. Sure, he likes the way Edward's lips twist and shift when he talks; his hand is warm on Stiles', and his eyes promise just as good a time as they did when they first met, but--

But something inside Stiles has shifted. He doesn't know when that happened, has no idea what caused it, but he finds that spectacular sex is no longer enough to look forward to, for him. He finds he wants... a connection. Something to link him to the other person, be it a shared past, or even just a moment, a second when they looked at each other and shared... something out of the ordinary.

He wishes he could say he doesn't know how it happened -- but for once he knows _exactly_ whom to blame. 

Edward's hand lifts from his suddenly, and Stiles' attention snaps back from where it had wandered into dragon-infested waters.

"Is everything okay?" Edward asks, but he looks--well, to put it bluntly, he looks like he already knows what Stiles is going to say.

"Yeah," Stiles says guiltily. It's so _rude_ to just drift away like that -- in the middle of a date, no less. God, he's an asshole. "I'm sorry, Edward."

Edward looks at him, and Stiles can see it in his eyes, the desire to fight for his attention. It's humbling, to be in someone's crosshairs like that, for someone to want to go against what their heart is telling them and try for something more. That he thinks that Stiles is worth fighting for. Certainly no one else is lining up for the privilege, these days, and probably he is being stupid to pass on such a nice guy as Edward. Mrs Bennet would have been appalled, had she been Stiles' mother.

 _Mrs Stilinski_ , however, would have hugged him tight and told him to listen to his heart.There isn't anything else Stiles can do in the face of that knowledge.

It must be written all over his face, by the way Edward sits back and sighs. Stiles fights the urge to apologise again. It's nothing Edward did; by all rights, Stiles should have been gleefully anticipating the rest of their evening, alone together. But it isn't Stiles' fault, either. Sometimes, that's just the way these things go. 

"It's okay, Stiles," Edward says, resigned.

"Damn it, you're such a nice guy," Stiles blurts out, despairing. He had to go and fall for the complete opposite of Edward, someone whom it pains to talk about his emotions, and who thinks being polite and charming is only useful for getting his way, and who has trouble using his words -- and who apologises when he knows he is in the wrong, as much as he hates to, and who wants to be thought of well by people he cares about, and who notices when something gets Stiles upset, and falls over himself to fix it, and who trots after Stiles like a lost puppy until Stiles tells him which shade of pale yellow he likes best. Who makes Stiles' coffee extra-hot when he knows Stiles will be out in the open for most of the morning, and who argues with Stiles about the best way to position the kitchen cabinets, and listens well enough to change it to how Stiles thought would be best without a word to announce it.

Someone who makes him laugh, and makes his heart beat faster -- and evidently makes him zone out in the middle of a wonderful dinner with a really nice guy. He looks back at Edward, making his face as apologetic as he knows how.

Edward shakes his head. His smile isn't happy, as such, but it is amused, and there's no darkness in it. "It's Derek, isn't it," Edward says, and for a moment, Stiles' breath tangles in his throat, and his heart slams against his ribs, and all he wants to do is shake his head and deny it to the ends of the earth. But he owes Edward this much, and anyway, Edward looks like in this, too, he already knows.

"Yes," Stiles whispers, fighting to get even that admission out, because for all his handwaving, he has the sneaking suspicion that Derek might just be the one -- the one he's been waiting for, hoping for, ever since he was twelve years old and trying to put his heart back together in the passenger seat of a sleek, purring Camaro. 

Edward nods to himself, like it was nothing more than he expected. Stiles rubs a hand over his face, despairing of his stupid heart.

"Not like it'll do me any good," he babbles, now that the tension has snapped. "He doesn't even--sometimes I--god, he makes me so--fuck. I don't think anything will come out of it," he confesses, heart-sore and defeated. 

When he looks up to see Edward's reaction to all this nonsense, Edward has this kind, warm look on his face.

"Oh, Stiles," he sighs, and it's not pity, but it's not just indulging him, either. "Do you know, I'm not even upset? I mean, I like you, a lot, and I'm certainly disappointed that nothing will come out of this thing between us, but I think I knew from the start, when I saw the way Derek and you reacted to each other. So much passion, my God. I haven't seen him like this since--actually, no, even then, I never saw him like this."

Stiles, finding himself listening oh-so-much closer, now that Derek is the topic of conversation, catches the glint of a clue and holds tight.

"Do you mean when he was with Kate?" he ventures, heart in his throat.

Edward startles, and levels him one of the most penetrating stares Stiles has ever been the subject of. "You're guessing," Edward deduces; then he appears to decide something. "It's a good guess, though. How much do you know about what went on between them?"

Stiles shrugs. "I've made some deductions. Reached a few conclusions."

"Have you now?" Edward murmurs, considering him. "Go on, then. Let's hear them."

Stiles fidgets, composing his thoughts. "Are you sure you want to be talking about this?" he asks, because yeah, he's still feeling guilty for blowing the guy off. Edward just smiles, that same smile full of teeth that had first caught Stiles' attention. 

"Oh, yeah," he purrs. "If I can't win you, I'm going to enjoy the hell out of watching you and Derek flounder around each other."

Stiles considers being offended, but there is no malice in Edward's voice; and let's face it. He is probably right. Stiles and Derek are going to be performing this song and dance for a while yet, by all accounts.

He gathers his thoughts, and then lays it all out.

"Okay, so. I know Derek and Kate dated, and I know she cheated on him with a much older guy, and I know Derek found out somehow, and -- and I suspect that she said some things to him, nasty things, probably -- and going from the way Derek fights to keep everything as close to his chest as possible, and thinks words are filthy traitors out to get him, I'd say he still believes whatever nonsense she fed him."

Edward looks at him appraisingly, eyebrows arched. "Oh, you're good," he says, and Stiles preens under the praise. "You're close, you're very--in fact, you're pretty much spot-on."

"I don't know who Kate cheated on him with, and I don't know what she said, or why he believed her, but it must have been pretty bad, if it's still affecting him."

Edward's face drops, and he looks like something left a bad taste in his mouth. "They were angry words, shouted by angry, hurt kids. They were both so young, never mind that Kate was older than Derek by almost two years. I was only eighteen at the time, myself, not long over the milestone. It was made worse by the fire, I think. A lot of guilt being banded around, even though the fire was an accident, even the investigator said so later. But it was an ugly break-up, and Derek -- I don't think Derek ever really recovered. He certainly wasn't the kid he used to be before he met Kate. 

"So yes, Stiles, I'm afraid you have a long, steep road ahead of you, trying to break down that wall Derek hid behind, after Kate. But you know what? I think you have a good chance at it. I've certainly never seen him react to anyone, the way he reacts to you. It pains me to say it, but yeah. Keep going."

Stiles just sits there, and nods, and tries to process all of this new information, tries to see the way it fits in with the whole. It had been pretty much as he suspected, then. Edward is quiet all the while, waiting him out. It's such a kind thing to do, after Stiles basically chose Edward's own cousin over him. Stiles smiles tentatively at him, so grateful for it.

"I wish--" he starts, but Edward lifts his hand, shakes his head.

"Don't. I know. I do, too. But it looks like the universe has something else planned for us -- well, for you, certainly. I wish you luck, Stiles. You're going to need it."

Stiles nods, determination coalescing in his gut. He can do this. He can get them there.

Derek is worth the effort.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Clio for all the help with the store locations in this chapter, on hir birthday, too! Happy birthday, bb. This chapter is for you.

Stiles finds himself at a bit of a loss, after that night. Edward had walked him back to his car, ribbing him gently about how hopeless he and Derek were about their emotions. Stiles had taken it with good grace, because embarrassed or not, let's face it: Edward was right. But it was--kind of nice, having a friend like Edward, someone who knew both sides of the equation, someone encouraging -- not that his own friends weren't encouraging, they just... sometimes went around being 'encouraging' in completely frustrating ways that were doing nothing for Stiles' level of hair retention. 

The only weird moment had come when they had been at the car, parked just down the road from The Pack, clearly visible through the front windows. Stiles had looked involuntarily, hoping to catch a glimpse of Derek even though he had known it was ridiculous. Instead, he'd seen Peter, sitting at the center of the wall of windows, in perfect line of sight of his car. Peter had a laptop open in front of him, a huge Mac monstrosity, but he'd looked up when Stiles had beeped his Jeep open, and even though Stiles had tried to ignore it, he'd still felt an itch between his shoulder blades like a pair of eyes fixed unerringly on him.

He and Edward had said good night, and Stiles, feeling over-emotional and exposed, had drawn him in for a quick hug. Edward had patted his back, but that had been all. Stiles wonders what it must have looked like from the coffee shop, what kind of message he was sending Peter, or even Derek, though of course Derek had been nowhere close enough to see it.

So anyway. After the date, after Stiles had reached the momentous, terrifying decision to fight for Derek's attention (affection), fight for what he wants, he finds himself floundering how to do so, how to make his intentions known. Flowers are _right_ out; he has always found the intent baffling. Once you are dating, sure; Stiles loves flowers, loves the way they smell, the way they brighten up a room. Before, though? The thought of just turning up and thrusting a bunch of roses in Derek's direction, while Derek stands there staring at him and frowning down at them, does not appeal.

His old stand-by is out, too; normally, he tends to buy his objects of attention (if not affection) coffee, sweeten them up by turning up with a bag from a good bakery on the pretext that he was in the neighbourhood and had some to spare. This time? Yeah, that's _so_ not gonna cut it. He has to come up with something less pathetic than just starting to show up at the shop three times a day, and less forward than just asking Derek out. The _last_ thing Stiles wants to do is spook him, and since this thing started reaching deeper than mere acquaintance, Derek has certainly been--let's call it skittish, although in his case it would be more growlish (Is that even a word? Well, it suits Derek to a T, so Stiles is going to go with it anyway.)

Scott is going to be no help at all. Scott won Allison over by handing her a spare pen when she'd lost hers. They are a lost cause, way too in love and basking in their own togetherness to be able to give out good advice on how to _get_ there. Stiles just wants to give Derek a hint that he would be ~~soaking in perfect happiness~~ ~~thrilled~~ ~~prone to giving out immediate rewards~~ _amenable_ , if Derek expressed an interest in dating him, and he has _no_ idea how to achieve that.

Lydia is... _Lydia_ , perfect beautiful smart-as-all-get-out Lydia who hasn't had to woo anyone pretty much ever. (God help him, he's thinking of this as _wooing_. He is so gone for that guy.) Jemima -- actually, Jemima is an option. 

Jemima laughs at him when he mentions it, but kindly. "Stiles, I'm asexual," she says, patting him on the arm. "I wouldn't have the first clue or interest in learning how to get into someone's pants."

Stiles digests this. Then he hangs his head. "It's not just about the sex," he mumbles, feeling embarrassed by the kind of stupid things he wants to do with Derek, like sleep with his head on Derek's lap as Derek reads, one hand running easily through Stiles' hair, or take Derek out on picnics by the seaside, or take Derek home to meet his dad officially, or, fuck, even going curtain shopping with him. Oh, god.

Jemima draws him into a quick hug, body warm and comforting against his. "Well, I'm not aromantic as well," she concedes. "I get the urge. How about talking to him about any interests you share? Take him someplace you know he'll enjoy, and it won't be weird because you're both interested in it, and you'd know that, having talked about it."

Stiles hums, thoughtful. "That's... actually not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all, wow, _thank you_."

"You're most welcome," she replies, patting his arm again. It's very soothing.

Now all he has to do is come up with interests he and Derek share. Or even that Derek has that don't make Stiles want to go to sleep.

The horrifying truth is that Derek, at this moment, has nothing in his head but furnishings. It's like he's trying to make up for the loss of the family home by building a new one, which is ridiculous, because it wasn't his fault the house burned down. But hadn't Edward said that there was a lot of guilt going around? Stiles gets it. He has lived with survivor's guilt since he was twelve, and even though losing a house is nothing like losing a parent, it's still your home, it's still a place where you felt safe, that was yours, that wrapped itself around you and protected you from the world. Losing that is no less traumatic.

It seems the way forward is clear, at least. And goddamn it, Stiles is never going to joke about going curtain shopping again.

Derek, when Stiles broaches the subject, looks surprised, then suspicious.

"Curtains?" he asks after a long moment of letting the tension stretch. His eyebrows furrow, like he's expecting an attack from an unknown location. "Really?"

"Curtains," Stiles confirms decisively, watching fondly as Derek's eyebrows unlock and his eyes take on an interested glint.

"That would be... really nice," Derek says, cautiously pleased. "I'd like that."

"It's a date, then," Stiles says, and freezes.

They stare at each other, both of them giving a fine 'deer in the headlights' impression. Stiles thinks about denying it, about backtrackng as fast as his words will go (which, let's face it, is _plenty_ fast) -- but then he stops, and remembers the way Derek had looked two days ago, on the morning after Stiles' and Edward's date, half like he was expecting a firing squad, half like he was trying not to give a damn; and he also remembers the resolution he made for himself that night with Edward across from him, to fight for what he wants.

So he stands there, and looks Derek in the eye, lets him see everything that's churning hopefully inside him, and smiles.

Derek looks--gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Like he's been hit on the back of his head with something heavy. He looks shocked, and that backtracking option is looking pretty damn tempting right about now. Stiles' heart sinks, but he grits his teeth and bears it, determined to see this through to the end.

"What about Edward?" Derek blurts, and he looks one step away from either punching Stiles' lights out or bolting.

Stiles wants to punch _himself_. He wants to cringe and swear at himself. Knowing what he now knows, he is such a damned idiot. He should have made sure that Derek knew exactly what happened -- or didn't -- between him and Edward, instead of just assuming Derek knew.

He clears his throat and shrugs helplessly. "We didn't really hit it off." It's not a lie.

Derek stares at him some more, eyes narrowed, like he's trying to read the history of that evening in Stiles' face. Stiles lets him look, doesn't make any attempt to hide what's there. He wants Derek to see how much he means it, how much he needs Derek to believe him. He wants this. He wants this _bad_ , and that's nothing but the truth.

And then Derek -- something happens to his face; his mouth quirks, his eyes warm up, and he fucking--he _beams_ at Stiles. His whole face lights up, and he just looks so _happy_ that Stiles' heart skips a beat. He looks like he can't quite believe this is happening, but by _god_ he wants it.

No one has ever looked at Stiles like that before. No one has ever made him feel, just by standing there, eyes locked to his, that Stiles is everything they have ever hoped for. Something wild, impossible to push back rises in Stiles' chest. He wants to--he doesn't even know, do something insane, throw his arms around Derek's neck and cling, shout "YES" really, really loud, just _something_ to let this mad build-up of emotion out before it bursts Alien-style out of his chest.

He doesn't, but only because they are still at the renovation site, and there are people _everywhere_. Stiles has no idea how close to the chest Derek wants to play this, but the guy is pretty private in any case, so Stiles thinks that throwing himself at him is probably best kept for -- let's say post-third-date territory. Before he can wind himself up for being an idiot, though, he notices the little glances Derek keeps throwing him across the room, when he thinks no one else is watching. A few months ago, chances are Stiles would not have been able to parse out the shifting emotions in them; but this is now, and Stiles can watch to his heart's content the way Derek's expression lightens up when he catches sight of Stiles, the curl of a smile on one side of his mouth, almost hidden from sight -- but not from Stiles.

Stiles watches him whenever he thinks he can get away with it, and lets the minute hints build and build, until he feels warmed all the way to his toes.

\---

Derek is--yeah, okay, he is fucking _adorable_ when they get inside Bed, Bath  & Beyond. He latches onto Stiles' shirt-covered forearm and basically refuses to let him go, dragging him behind as he strides away through the different departments and makes a beeline for the curtains display. Stiles follows without complaint, not least because Derek's excitement is contagious, for all that it's quiet, only evident in the taut, almost vibrating lines of his body, and only visible to Stiles because he has kind of made a hobby out of studying the guy.

Naturally, the first things said guy stops in front of are the blackout curtains.

Stiles rubs his forehead with the hand Derek finally deigns to relinquish. "Seriously?" he grumbles. " _Seriously_? I let you paint your room mud-brown, and now you're buying blackout curtains. I can't even with this."

"It's _chocolate_ brown," Derek corrects in the absent-minded, long-suffering tones of someone who has had that discussion too many times to count. It's... kind of delightful, that Derek lets that voice out around Stiles -- don't look at him like that. Yeah, okay, so he's kind of a sap. Sue him. He likes that he and Derek have inside jokes now. It's sweet. "Also the room faces East. You don't want to wake up every morning with the sun trying to burn a hole through your eyelids, do you?"

"Well, granted, you do have a point there, but I," Stiles says, and grinds to a stop as his brain catches up with his ears.

His eyelids.

His eyelids closed in sleep.

In Derek's bed.

Every morning.

Stiles maybe needs a minute here.

Derek has turned, while Stiles was having his mini-breakdown, and is watching him through eyes narrowed in amusement tinged with affection. "Cat got your tongue?" he teases gently.

"Nuh," Stiles manages, mouth still hanging open as he imagines seeing that look in Derek's eyes every morning as he wakes up, every evening before he closes his eyes. He wants it so badly it's a cramp in his gut. "Blackout curtains. Blackout curtains are--yes. Good. Right. Okay."

Derek turns away again, head tipped back to get a good look at the admittedly lovely red-and-vintage-gold fabric. They'll complement the brown nicely, making the room look rich, decadent. They're a good choice.

"I like them," Stiles ventures, and is rewarded with another one of those smiles Derek seems to save just for him. 

"Good. We'll get them. Now let's do the rest of the rooms real quick."

It is pretty quick, Stiles finds. The living room gets a lovely two-toned deep-brown-and-turquoise set that will really make the lighter, earthy colours pop, and the other bedrooms upstairs get variations of the colors in which Derek and Laura had decided to paint them. Laura herself merits a lovely green and gray leafy design that will go beautifully with her room, decorated in shades of green and gold, much like a relaxing spot in the woods. 

Derek demands Stiles' opinion on everything, and Stiles gives it gladly, still warm from Derek's earlier declaration -- because that's what that was. Those words, few and far between and so perfectly 'Derek', Stiles _knows_ they were nothing less than Derek Hale expressing his wishes for the way things will progress from here on in. The rest of the trip through the store is a haze; all Stiles' energy is spent trying not to burst through his seams in excitement, and anticipation. Because if Derek thinks he's getting away tonight without bestowing a goodnight kiss on Stiles, he's got another thing coming. It's all Stiles can do not to climb on top of him and kiss him stupid right there in the aisle.

Loot stashed away over the back seat of Stiles' Jeep, they blast their way back to Beacon Hills, bickering amiably over the music and performing a one-handed duel for the right to operate the car radio. Derek plays fair, one hand loosely tucked at his side, lower lip bit between even, white teeth to hide how widely he wants to grin (hint -- he can't. Stiles sees it _all_ ). It doesn't mean that _Stiles_ has to play fair, however; in the end, he holds Derek's arm away with his right hand, and lets go of the wheel to turn the dial with his left. Derek grumbles, and growls, and insinuates that going deaf would be preferable to having to listen to _this_ garbage, but he lets Stiles win, which, holy shit, Derek Hale _willingly lets him win_. Stiles _so_ has him whipped.

"Can we pass by the shop so I can show Laura?" Derek requests, and since that is something Stiles will always be happy to accommodate, he takes a left into town, instead of a right into the woods, and cruises to a stop just outside the coffee shop. The music cuts off with a sudden whine, and Stiles grins gleefully at the relieved look on Derek's face. He'll listen to it and like it, when Stiles is the one that's driving. (He dreads to think what Derek will subject him to, the next time they have to take a longer trip in the Camaro. Already, he can't wait to find out.)

Derek jumps eagerly out of the Jeep and bounds inside the door, much like an overeager puppy. Stiles follows more sedately, marvelling at this sudden change in roles, in time to hear Derek tell Laura all about the results of their trawl. 

"Come outside, I'll show you the curtains for the bedrooms. Stiles helped pick them out."

Laura sends Stiles a knowing look, and yeah, okay, so apparently Stiles has not been as subtle with his interest as he had imagined -- that, or Edward had spilled the beans on them to Laura. Either way, Laura doesn't look too disappointed; she looks happy with the way things are evolving, actually, which is always nice to know. Stiles wonders vaguely if she had been as pleased when Kate had first appeared, but decides to crash and burn that train of thought immediately -- there's no sense in borrowing trouble.

"I hope you thought... long and _hard_ about the curtains you chose, Stiles," Peter Hale says, from his spot at a table on the far end of the counter, unseen but all-seeing and sending Stiles jumping a little.

Derek, one foot out of the door, hesitates and looks like he's going to stomp back inside and plant himself in front of Stiles, arms firmly crossed over his chest. Stiles watches, part-amused, part-uneasy, as Laura rolls her eyes and shoves Derek out of the door, throwing Peter one last speaking glance before following her brother out. With no other option, Stiles turns to Peter, waiting to see what he wants.

"It's not my bedroom," he shrugs, just to say something in the suddenly deafening silence. Peter arches his eyebrows at him, like he very much disagrees. 

"From what I can see, that status quo will not last long." He doesn't sound like he minds, precisely, but--okay, actually, he sounds _creepy_. Like he might want to join Stiles in said bedroom -- and while Peter is a Hale, and they are apparently genetically incapable of being unattractive -- ew, _no_.

Stiles fidgets, trying not to show how weirded out he feels. He can't actually think of anything to say back to that, because -- well, what _do_ you say? 'I'm not morally opposed to banging your nephew'? 'I'm seriously looking forward to stripping him naked and licking him all over'? 'Spending the night isn't the half of it, believe you me'? 'I can't _wait_ '? Actually, that last one isn't too bad, but he isn't sure he wants to be _that_ open with the guy. There's something... almost sinister about him. Stiles has no idea if this is his overactive imagination speaking, but regardless, Peter Hale is not someone with whom Stiles feels comfortable sharing the aforementioned insights as to the way he feels about Derek.

Then something occurs to him.

"Is that... an objection?" he asks tentatively, trying to feel his way through. 

For the first time, Peter looks honestly surprised. "Dear boy, whatever gave you that idea? Not at all, I'm thrilled for Derek. I just hope that you are in earnest."

There's the faintest hint of a question in Peter's voice, slinking at the tail end of the sentence. It makes Stiles blink at him.

"If you mean, am I serious about this, then yes. Yes, I am," he says at last, and wow, he never expected it to come out sounding like that, but yeah, this right here? It's no less a declaration than Derek's statement of intent in the drapes showroom had been.

Whatever it sounds like, it makes Peter look pleased. Maybe the guy isn't so bad after all, if he's this invested in looking out for his nephew. Doesn't mean Stiles is keen to linger; he takes his chance and escapes while he can.

Outside, Laura is buried waist-deep into the back seat of the Jeep, squeaking gleefully every few seconds as she tears through their purchases. Derek stands to the side, watching him anxiously.

"What did Peter say?" he demands, but there's a hesitant note in his voice that Stiles wonders at. 

"Nothing much, just insinuated that he thought I would be seeing more of those bedroom curtains than anyone supposes." Stiles tries not to blush at that, and probably fails. It's nothing to be embarrassed about, except maybe just _how much_ he wants it. He smiles at Derek meekly, _look, ma, no claws_. He's okay with this. More than okay. _Get there as soon as humanly possible_ okay, but he doesn't want to screw this up. For this, he can be patient.

Derek's frown disperses, like clouds parting to let out the sun. His own smile is distinctly relieved.

Stiles gives Laura a side-eyed glance and, finding her still happily occupied, steps closer, close enough to smell a hint of Derek's aftershave, feel the warmth of Derek's body against his side. Derek's eyes soften some more, and he tilts his head down a little, like he wants to enclose the two of them in a world of their own, away from prying eyes. It makes Stiles feel like the most desirable person on Earth.

"I'm not going anywhere," Stiles murmurs, inching that little bit closer still, until his fingers brush the side of Derek's hand. It twitches, and then turns, catching them, drawing them to lace with Derek's longer ones. Stiles stays still, and breathes around the flock of pterodactyl-sized butterflies in his stomach, shivers a little when Derek's exhale tickles his cheek.

"I hope so," Derek says. Stiles wants to frown, wants to stop and question the almost begging tone in Derek's voice, like Derek wants so much to believe it, but he doesn't quite dare -- but then Laura straightens, and that conversation? Not something he wants to have under the shrewd gaze of Derek's sister.

He's not letting this go, though. Whatever it takes, he wants Derek to understand, to _believe_ , that wild horses couldn't drag Stiles away from him; that he is committed, in this for the long run. 

He just needs to find a way to drive the point in, far enough that even Derek's suspicious, once-burnt-twice-shy mind can grasp it.

\--

It's hours later. Laura has seen them off, they have delivered the curtains to the house and watched with, Stiles felt, a mirrored sense of satisfaction as they were put up by the remaining workmen before they headed home. Now, the house is empty around them, dormant, waiting for that spark that will nudge it to life again, that will turn it into a home. Derek wanders the rooms, as he is wont to do in the evenings, while the blood-red disc of the sun crawls towards the horizon like it, too, is exhausted and ready for bed.

Stiles is ready. _So_ ready. But there's something about Derek that whispers quietly to him, asks him to wait, to give him time. Stiles has no idea how he knows, no idea what it is he sees, but he could swear on a stack of Bibles that if he rushes this now, he risks shattering it to pieces. So he waits, trails along behind Derek's longer strides, lets his eyes linger on the pale yet warm yellow walls of the living room, breathes in the scent of freshly cut wood, of bare furniture waiting patiently to be put to use. It's so easy to be alone in Derek's presence, to relish the quiet hum of his being there, that faint smile he always wears when he's in the house, the easing of his posture, like he has relinquished the weight he usually carries with him at the front door together with his coat. 

Usually, it's a struggle for Stiles to stay quiet, to let the ambiance of a place sink into his bones, stay his tongue. This place, though -- it feels natural to let the silence stay, to let it soothe him until his breathing slows along with his strides, until he comes to a stop before the enormous fireplace the workmen finished installing today, tucks his hands in his jeans' pockets, tilts his head back so his eyes can trace the corners of the ceiling, segueing neatly into the walls. He breathes deeply, in, out, the smell of the almost finished house twining with the scent of Derek at the end of the day, warm and masculine and so alive. 

He has no idea when Derek completed his tour of the house, when he retraced his footsteps and came to find him, but there are strong arms tentatively slipping around his waist, and a broad, muscled chest right behind him when Stiles lets himself sink into the embrace, tilts his head back to rest it against Derek's shoulder. Neither of them speaks; they just stand there, close, touching, drawing pleasure from the contact, warm and solid, real. Derek's chin hooks over Stiles' shoulder after a little while, and he buries his nose in Stiles' neck, inhales deeply, presses a soft kiss against the skin. Stiles hums, slow waves of bliss dragging him down, making his bones melt and his heartbeat skip, then settle into a rhythm just a touch faster than normal.

He grabs his courage with both hands, turns in Derek's arms until he's nose-to-nose with the man he thinks he is falling irrevocably in love with. Derek's eyes search his, then dip to his mouth, and Stiles can't help himself; his lips fall open, begging to be kissed. The sound that tears from Derek's throat is pained, needful, and it sets Stiles on fire, makes his eyelids flutter involuntarily. He leans closer, and Derek swoops in, and then their lips are touching, sliding together, a touch too dry until Stiles' tongue darts out to wet them, licking over Derek's mouth, too, since it's _right there_. The arms around him tighten; Derek is a long line of heat against his front when he tips his head down again, deepens the kiss until Stiles' knees are shaking and he has to wrap his arms around Derek's shoulders just to keep himself upright. 

It's easy, smooth; they fit, like two pieces of a puzzle, searching for each other for years before slotting into the place left for them inside the other, so perfectly right. Derek tastes like the toffee candy he snuck in when he thought no one was looking, of the coffee they'd had earlier. He tastes sweet, and determined, and himself, holding onto Stiles like he is something precious, like he'll never let go.

But, of course, eventually the time comes when he does. He draws back, breath short and fast, leans his forehead against Stiles', one hand sweeping soothingly up and down his back. Stiles tries to make himself suck in air past the lump of emotion that has lodged itself in his throat; his fingers dig into Derek's muscles, but Derek doesn't seem to mind, so Stiles tries not to let it bother him, how much he needs to hold on, to have the firmness under his hands that tells him this is real. 

He tries to speak, tries to form words, fails, doesn't even care. There's nothing that needs to be said right now, not when their hands, their bodies speak enough for the both of them, tell a story of longing and only temporary satisfaction.

"I should," Stiles manages at last, swallows. "Should I go?"

He feels Derek's mouth curl against his temple, where his lips have come to rest. "Yeah, Stiles. You should. I don't want this to--I want--" he huffs in irritation, words clearly being assholes in his head.

"I know," Stiles says, putting him out of his misery. "I know, me too. Later?"

"Later." It's much more of a promise than any number of elaborate plans could have been.

"Good," Stiles murmurs, swallowing again. "In that case I have a dog waiting for me at home that probably thinks she's going to die of starvation by the time I get in."

Derek huffs a laugh and takes a step back. It's not a big step. More of a backward shuffle. His hands appear to have trouble letting Stiles go entirely. Stiles can't say he minds.

"I'll walk you to your car," Derek says, and Stiles doesn't know what it is with Derek and walking Stiles to places, but he would perjure himself if he said he didn't like it. So he lets Derek follow at his heels as he heads for his Jeep, and tries to keep the peace of the place inside him for that little bit longer, before his mind inevitably starts picking all of this happiness apart.

"See you tomorrow," Derek says, closing the door once Stiles is inside, hands lingering on top of the window Stiles lowered, like a kid that doesn't want the day to be over. Stiles should probably not find it so adorable; but like he figured at the start of the day, that's pretty much a lost cause.

"Tomorrow," he confirms. Derek leans in and steals another kiss, drawing back before Stiles realises what is happening. 

"Bye," Derek says, with this shy smile on his lips that melts Stiles' heart.

Starting the engine and pulling away takes all the strength Stiles has left, after making himself walk out of that house. He watches Derek shrink in the rear view mirror, thinking longingly of the day that the enormous bed Derek has on order will make an appearance at last. After that? All bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, tomorrow I'll be going away for about two weeks, with sporadic internet access. It's anyone's guess when the next chapter will be up -- just letting you know. (Hey, could happen tomorrow for all I know, this story is riding me hard and putting me away wet.) Good news is, there are only two more installments to come by my calculations, a full one and an epilogue, so. You know. Thanks to everyone for all their encouragement; it makes me _so damn happy_ to open my inbox to all your love.  <3


	10. Chapter 10

The house takes shape as the year turns, from winter to spring, from empty to full. The sofas for the living room arrive, leather and canvas monstrosities that look almost obscenely comfortable, and feel even better. The haulers from the sofa store are only contracted to bring them as far as the front door, so Derek picks up the phone and a brigade of a kind quickly takes shape. Isaac and Edward hold up one end of the three-meter-long centerpiece, lanky frames bowed under its weight, and Stiles and Derek hold up the other. Stiles never realized how much taller than him everyone else was, not until the moment when his corner dips as they move and almost upsets the delicate balance. Everyone yells, though Stiles is pleasantly surprised to find that they aren’t yelling _at_ him, more to admonish him to be careful, which is all kinds of amusing. Derek looks like he wants to shove him out of the way and single-handedly hold up their end, which makes Stiles laugh in his face and tell him to fuck off in no uncertain terms. Awkward or not, they do manage to wrangle the sofa inside, barely even scraping the few corners they have to round. The second piece proves much easier to handle, and at long last the room fills, and starts to look comfortably lived-in. The last rays of the sun find the four of them sprawled all over the gigantic central sofa, shoulders knocking into each other, legs splayed every which way, lazy with the tired satisfaction only physical exertion can bring. Stiles thinks of the months and years of this to come, of being enfolded into Derek’s family, of their friends intermingling until they all forgot who brought whom, and all he can feel is a fierce affection for them all, the soul-deep wish to make it happen, to be there to see it, to have Derek at his side, quietly happy, as the future comes upon them.

The bed arrives, too. It is, quite frankly, orgy-sized. Stiles boggles at it for a while – he had known it was going to be big, but not _how_ big exactly, and it takes him a moment to comprehend the sheer scale of it.

The bed arrives, but it does not get used for the purpose Stiles had premeditated all the while. It unapologetically hogs the middle of the large, cozy bedroom (Stiles has to grudgingly concede that the chocolate brown had been a good choice for it, but don’t let Derek catch him even thinking it), like something intangible clicking into place, like just the act of settling it in the space intended for it is enough to make the room feel complete. Derek stands on the other side of it, across from Stiles; but the predatory smile Stiles had expected, anticipated, even, does not appear. Instead it’s something smaller, realer, that curls Derek’s lips, makes his face soften; something faintly apologetic, apprehensive, begging Stiles to understand. Derek isn’t ready, it telegraphs loud and clear across the space. But Stiles has waited this long – almost a decade, all told – and so he can be patient a while longer. Derek is worth the wait.

(There is kissing, though. Oh, there surely is, long, slow, languid kisses, kisses that turn Stiles’ spine to jelly and his legs to warm honey, Derek’s hands burning on Stiles’ hips, tugging him closer until there is no more space between them and keeping him there, heating him inside out to a low simmer that promises to boil over at the slightest excuse. All Stiles can do in those moments is hold on tight and try not to come in his pants as his painfully hard cock rubs against Derek’s equally rigid one, making them both lose their breaths in each other’s mouths. Drinking down Derek’s gasps and curses and the quiet noises he makes deep in his throat is Stiles’ only consolation, a reassurance that Derek wants this just as much as he does, that Derek wants _him_ , despite whatever it is that is stopping him from taking Stiles and fucking him through the mattress. They are all Derek’s, though, those sounds, saved up and given to Stiles alone, and that? Is worth more than any fleeting orgasm.)

Things go on slowly, but they do go on, and Derek doesn’t run away, and they don’t crash and burn, like Stiles sometimes lies awake at night worrying they might. It’s all Stiles can ask for, and it’s more, way more than any of his previous short-lived relationships had had to offer. Things are going just fine, as far as he’s concerned.

Which, of course, means that when the other shoe drops, it is at exactly the _worst_ moment Stiles could have imagined.

It’s a sunny morning in early April when Stiles hurries for the front door of the coffee shop, a spring in his step – he's picking up Derek and driving down with him to the office of the construction company handling the house’s renovation, where they can finally pick up the keys to the place. The work is done and _done_ , and the house is Derek and Laura’s alone once more. Stiles is thinking of maybe finally broaching the s-word subject that he and Derek have been tiptoeing around for months now; it’s the perfect time – in just a short half-hour Stiles will go from project consultant to just the project owner’s boyfriend at last, and as Derek’s boyfriend, there are certain things Stiles is keen to engage in. Thus, it’s not exactly surprising that he isn’t looking at where he’s going, or that he manages to crash ungainly into the tall, blond woman at the entrance, one of her arms outstretched to tug the door of the shop open.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” Stiles babbles as he catches her elbow to steady them both. “It’s entirely my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Yeah, so he’s the one in the wrong, but he still doesn’t think it warrants the withering glare the woman gives him, heavy with disdain like Stiles is something unseemly she has just stepped in. She doesn’t say a word in reply, just sniffs, cold gaze sliding dismissively right off him, and strides past Stiles, through the door he is holding helpfully open for her. Stiles dislikes her on sight.

And that’s before she takes a look around the shop and zeroes immediately in on Derek, pouring coffees behind the bar as usual. Her stare is so pointed, Stiles is surprised that Derek doesn’t feel it on him and look up. The woman’s walk adopts a seductive sway of hips, and her mouth curves in a predatory smile that has Stiles’ insides freezing in a lump of ice. It is immediately obvious that this woman knows Derek, intimately.

Stiles seeks out Laura’s eyes, hoping for a clue as to what the hell is going on; but if he was hoping for reassurance, he's destined to be disappointed, because Laura looks abjectly horrified, a look quickly replaced by a fury the likes of which Stiles has never seen before.

‘The fuck?’ he sees Laura’s lips shape, even when he’s too far away to actually hear it.

Meanwhile, the woman has reached Derek’s vicinity. For some reason Stiles can’t even begin to identify, he absolutely does _not_ want her talking to him.

“Hello, Derek,” the woman purrs. “Long time no see. I think I’ve missed you.”

Derek stills. Stiles never realized how well he has come to know Derek in the past few months, not until he sees the flash of pure undisguised fear in his eyes, something that he knows most other people would have missed altogether. He can practically read the ‘oh, _shit_ ’ in Derek’s eyes, and it makes something inside Stiles ache and crystallize, a determination never to have to see that look on his face again. Stiles wants to rush forward, to push himself between Derek and this woman, whoever the hell she is. _No one_ should be able to make Derek look like that. _No one._

Derek’s head slowly lifts; his jaw works visibly, so that Stiles knows he’s gritting his teeth tightly enough to hurt.

“What are you doing here, Kate?” he growls, and that’s when the penny drops.

‘Fucking Kate fucking Argent,’ Stiles thinks furiously to himself. Coming here and acting like _that_ , after everything. What a fucking bitch.

His feet move without his consent, carrying him further into the shop, where he is determined to grab her by the hair and drag her out if he has to.

And then Derek looks up at him, sees he's there for the first time. Stiles finds himself once again frozen in place; and if he thought that he was cold before, now he actually can’t draw breath from the dull pain that fills him, because for the first time Derek looks terrified. It punches Stiles in the gut, forces all the air from his body. Derek looking like that at him, like he’s afraid of _Stiles_ is… not something that Stiles can bear.

Kate, meanwhile, is oblivious to the tension around her, thick enough to slice. Her eyes rove over Derek’s body like it’s her property; she licks her lips. Stiles has never, ever felt the urge to hit a woman before, but he wants to wipe the covetous smile from her lips by any means necessary, up to and including resorting to violence.

“I was just swinging by to visit my favorite niece, when what should I hear but that you’re back in town? I couldn’t miss the chance to see you again. You don’t call, you don’t write,” Kate playfully admonishes, while Derek looks like he wants to throw up. Then she makes a show of looking him up and down. “My, you _have_ grown up. Makes me almost nostalgic. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so hasty to move on if I’d known what I’d be missing.”

Derek is staring down at his hands. He hasn’t looked back up at Stiles since that first look filled with dread. Stiles doesn’t know what to do, what he _can_ do that will make Derek stop looking like that.

Laura, it seems, is braver than him. “You aren’t welcome here, Kate,” she says coldly, eyes flat and arms crossed over her chest.

Kate’s eyes flick dismissively over her. She ignores Laura entirely, draping herself over the bar in a way Stiles is sure is meant to be seductive, but just makes his skin crawl. From the look on Derek’s face, Stiles isn’t the only one.

“What say you we ditch this joint and you show me how much you’ve learned in my absence? I’m sure I’d be happy to correct any misapprehensions you have gained. I always was, if you’ll remember.”

Derek actually looks repulsed. Stiles is grateful that _that_ look, at least, he has never seen directed at him.

“If you think—“ Derek starts, mouth twisting in distaste, but the staff door opening and closing behind him makes him swallow the end of the sentence.

Peter looks up, mouth already open to say something that they never get to hear, because his words, too, dry out when his eyes land on Kate. For the first time since she stepped inside the coffee shop, Kate looks uncomfortable.

“Kate,” Peter says, clearly just as surprised as the rest of the Hales.

“Peter,” she snaps curtly. “I didn’t know you were back around, also.”

Something extremely unpleasant starts to take shape in Stiles’ mind as he watches the exchange. He’s good at reading people, always has been, and he _really_ doesn’t like what he’s seeing – which doesn’t make it any less true, no matter how hard he tries to explain it away. It’s all there in Peter’s relaxed yet watchful stand, the sudden rigidity of Kate’s back, the way Derek’s eyes move between the two of them, angry and betrayed and, somewhere underneath it all, deeply hurt. It was Peter who Kate cheated on Derek with, Stiles can feel the truth of it in his bones. _That’s_ why Derek is always so angry around Peter, why he never relaxes around him, even though he’s family, and as far as Stiles has seen, family is sacred to the Hales. Oh, god. Stiles feels faintly sick.

To his credit, Peter, too, looks at Kate with a marked distance in his eyes, and he hasn’t stepped closer to her, even though there is space. Instead, he stands between Laura and Derek, carefully half a step away from each. He’s taking a stand, as clear as Stiles has ever seen, and it isn’t Kate’s side that Peter weighs in on.

Kate seems to realize it, too; she takes half a step back, clearly preparing to leave, and Stiles can feel the tempting edge of relief already. He should have known it was too easy.

Peter looks up. “And Stiles! Well, this is a fine happenstance. Derek, you didn’t tell me it was bring-your-partners-to-work day; I’d have made a few calls. I hate feeling left out, and let's be honest, it’s questionable whose side Kate ought to fall on.”

Stiles doesn’t know whether to laugh or cringe, since it makes Kate look just as uncomfortable as Derek, and Stiles isn’t above petty revenge. But then Kate’s face changes, much like a predator who has caught the scent of her prey. She turns to look at Stiles again, looking unflatteringly astonished.

“Is this your little boyfriend, Derek? _This_ is who you’re shacking up with these days? I’d have thought I taught you better taste. Tell me, pal, does Derek talk about me when he fucks you? Does he tell you all the things we used to do together, how he begged so prettily when I tied him up? I’m sure it’s a damn sight more interesting than whatever you kids get up to.”

Stiles looks up, straight at Derek’s eyes. Derek looks… ashamed, and defeated. Stiles can’t bear it, he _can’t_ , this isn’t something he will just stand by and watch happen.

So he looks up at Kate, and calmly says, “Actually, this is the first time I’ve heard of you. I guess there’s nothing about you that Derek finds interesting enough to talk about.”

Kate’s jaw drops, and stays dropped. On the other side of her, Stiles finds three startled pairs of eyes; a moment later Laura’s face cracks into a gleeful, triumphant grin, while Peter looks on with something very much like approval. Stiles can’t read Derek’s face at all.

Whatever. This is the time to press an advantage, so Stiles makes himself smile easily at Derek, makes his voice perfectly unbothered as he says, “Coming, babe? We’ll be late.”

Derek stares at him a moment longer, like he has never seen Stiles before in his life; then he seems to snap out of it.

“Yeah. Coming,” he says shortly, then grabs his coat and walks past Kate without a second glance. His steps are just a touch too fast, but Stiles isn’t going to call him out on it, certainly not where Kate can hear them.

Kate watches them go with an unreadable expression on her face. There’s something unpleasant in her eyes, but Stiles firmly turns his back on her and follows Derek out of the door and around the corner of the shop. Stiles has to quicken his steps to catch up, and even then it’s a struggle to keep up with Derek’s long legs determinedly carrying him away from the ugly altercation.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles has to call out at last, out of breath, insides churning harder the further Derek gets from him. At first, it doesn’t look like Derek has heard him, or will heed him if he has, and Stiles is getting ready to call after him again when Derek slows to a reluctant stop and stands there, frozen in place, hands squeezing fitfully into fists. Stiles steps in close to him, wanting more than anything to show Derek that this, none of it makes any difference at all to him, to the way he feels about Derek. If anything, it makes him want to take Derek in his arms, makes him want to wrap a blanket around him and hold him tight and kiss that look off his face.

But Derek doesn’t look like he’d welcome any of that. His back is stiff, sending everyone a message: back the fuck off before I bite your head off. Stiles doesn’t know what to do; everything inside him screams at him to touch Derek, take his hand, tug him close, but Derek looks like he might break clean in two if Stiles were to do it.

“Are… you okay?” Stiles asks hesitantly, praying for something, some small sign to tell him what Derek needs from him right now. There is nothing. Derek seems as closed-off and forbidding as that first morning when Stiles saw him standing in the middle of the coffee shop, alone and happy to be so.

“Stiles, can we just... not do this right now?” Derek growls, knuckles going white with strain. “I’ll go pick up the keys by myself. I’ll talk to you later,” he adds, cutting off Stiles’ instinctive protest. He won’t look at Stiles at all.

Stiles has no choice. He stands there and lets Derek go, because apparently that’s what Derek needs him to do, because Stiles is fresh out of better ideas. And if his heart squeezes small and painful in his chest, well. It’s not what Derek needs right now.

\---

After three days of radio silence, Stiles has officially had enough. Derek has gone into hiding, it seems; or at least, into full-out Stiles-avoidance mode. He has ‘just gone out’ when Stiles comes by the coffee shop, and no matter how hard he glares at Isaac, the guy refuses to give his boss up, even if he looks apologetic while he stonewalls Stiles. Derek doesn’t answer Stiles’ calls, he isn’t at the house when Stiles, seriously worried now, drives up to try and talk to him. He’s still in town, Stiles knows that much, because otherwise he’s pretty sure by now someone would have put him out of his misery and told him.

So, on the afternoon of the third day, after yet another dodged phone call, Stiles calmly picks up the keys to his Jeep and declares that he’s taking the rest of the day off. Jemima smiles at him encouragingly, while Lydia rolls her eyes and says, “At last. I was getting tired of all the moping, you’re bringing morale down. Go sort out your boyfriend and come back on Monday ready to get some work done.”

Stiles scowls. “Hey, who’s the boss around here?” he grumbles, but the look Lydia sends him quickly has him deciding he’s better off saving his energy for arguing with Derek rather than trying to get Lydia to admit to anything of the sort.

Eyre, with him again after her spell at the K9 unit HQ for suitability assessment, barks encouragingly, nudging Stiles closer to the door. Well, at least _she_ thinks this isn’t doomed to end in a total disaster.

Twenty minutes later, Stiles pulls up outside Derek's house, turns off the engine, and... completely fails to march up to the front door, knock it down, and demand an explanation. He sits there instead, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, gazing up to the twitching curtains of the living room, hoping like he has never hoped before that he hasn't read this all wrong, that he isn't about to make an utter idiot of himself and get his heart broken in one fell swoop.

Eyre rests her head on the crook of his elbow and huffs gently, looking up at Stiles from under bushy doggy eyebrows, which twitch as she glances between him and the house. Stiles lets go of the wheel with one hand, scratches her gently behind the ears, grateful for the encouragement.

The curtain twitches again. Stiles doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the cliche of it all, him sitting in the car, heart in his throat, and Derek likely waiting anxiously by the door to have it all out with him.

At last, Stiles screws up his courage and gets out of the car, trudging up the steps with heavy feet. He knocks arhythmically, four times. Long seconds drift into minutes, and Stiles could _swear_ that there is a presence behind the door, hovering uncertainly less than an arm's reach away, yet not closing that final distance.

"Derek? Derek, come on, I know you're there. Open the door," Stiles calls out, as gently and soothingly as he knows how, like he's talking to a startled puppy. "Please," he adds after another moment of no movement at all.

The door snicks open, and there Derek stands, scowling, arms crossed over his chest. It would be forbidding, if Stiles couldn't see the defensiveness in Derek's stance, the uncertainty in his eyes.

"So," Stiles starts. The lump of dread in his gut hasn't really dissipated since the argument three days ago, but Stiles tells himself to be brave and to get this thing sorted out already -- because he can't stand another night at home, wondering 'what if', wondering if all his efforts, all the progress he and Derek have made over the months, have been for nothing. "Is this the part where I should take the hint and not come round anymore? Are you breaking up with me here?"

Derek shifts on his feet, and looks down at them like they are a fascinating, hitherto undiscovered species. "I'm not the one doing the breaking up," he mumbles, like he's hoping Stiles won't hear him at all.

Stiles tells himself he isn't so relieved his knees feel weak. "Well good, that's--what?" he blurts, stumbling to a halt when his brain catches up with his ears.

Derek shrugs uncomfortably. He won't meet Stiles' eyes. For a long, surreal moment, Stiles doesn't know whether to laugh or hit him.

"You absolute _moron_ ," Stiles growls, ignoring the way Derek's head snaps up. "Is this what's been going on? Have you been driving yourself nuts thinking I want out just because of what Kate said?" A truly horrible thought occurs. "Is this why we've been stalled on the subject of you taking me to bed? Have you been winding yourself up because of something that awful woman said to you _ten years ago_?"

"No," Derek says shiftily. His body language immediately calls him a liar. Stiles somehow manages to stifle the urge to smack his own forehead and groan.

"Jesus Christ," he sighs, looking at the big idiot with what he suspects is disgustingly sappy fondness. "I'm not going anywhere, how many times do I have to say it for you to start believing me?"

 _Yes, finally_ , eye contact. It sends another wave of relief crashing through Stiles' chest. Derek is looking at him again, pale eyes clearing from their cloudy grey into the colour of freshly polished jade, light and cautiously happy. He sends Stiles what looks like it's trying to be a smile, but only makes it up to a quirk of his mouth. It's clue enough, though; and if Stiles had missed that one, the accompanying slight unwinding of Derek's shoulders from the rigid tension of a moment ago sends the message through loud and clear.

Stiles sighs, catching Derek's eyes and holding them. "I'm not going to leave you over the words of someone who was just a girl back then, capable of making mistakes just as much as we were. All your frowns and growls didn't manage to drive me away before; what makes you think slander will have more success where they failed?"

"How do you know it's slander?" Derek argues, which is kind of sweet, as much as it's heartbreaking. "Maybe Kate's right. Maybe I am too bland in bed. Maybe you will leave me when you get bored with me."

"And maybe I'll grab you and shake you until your teeth rattle, and then I'll drag you off to bed and fuck you right now, how about that?" Stiles counters, making an effort to keep his voice level, flippant almost, and not give away how much he wants to find Kate Argent right now and spit in her face.

"If that's what gets you off," Derek agrees, but there's something wrong with his tone, something that makes Stiles shudder, like the chill of an ice cube down his spine.

"This isn't about what gets me off," Stiles says quietly, willing Derek to hear and understand _this_ , at least, if nothing else registers. "This is about what gets _you_ off, what makes it good for both of us. You don't have to do anything that you don't want to. Okay? Promise me, right now, that you'll always tell me if I'm doing anything that makes you uncomfortable, or I'm turning on my heel and walking away, and I won't mention the subject of sex ever again, if that's what it takes."

Derek's expression changes, but Stiles is too wound up, too horrified by what he almost did to make any sense of it. He thinks there's something softer in Derek's face now, hopes that he didn't just ruin everything with his stupid clumsy jokes, god, why does he have to _keep talking_ , why doesn't the ground open and take all his damn words?! But Derek doesn't get that horrible look in his eyes again, the one that says he doesn't really want to do this, but if that's what it takes to get Stiles to stay... because _no_. Jesus, if he ever sees that look in Derek's eyes again, it'll be too soon. He can live without sex. He can be patient, damn it, he can give Derek the time to come to terms with this. He refuses to listen to the little voice in his head that tells him it has already been ten years, that maybe Derek _can't_ get over it. That's fine, too. He'll earn Derek's trust, somehow, if it's the last thing he does.

"Stiles," Derek says gently. His expression shifts again, but Stiles is listening to the tone of his words, the easing of tension in his body, and even if he still can't read Derek's face, he can tell he isn't being pushed away. "It's okay," Derek continues. "You aren't Kate. I know that. I'm sorry I--" he waves an awkward hand. "You know."

Stiles starts breathing again. "That you ran? Let me guess, you panicked badly enough that you stopped thinking rationally -- not that rational thinking is one of your strong suits at the best of times, don't think I hadn't noticed."

"Hey," Derek rebukes mildly. Then he scuffs his shoe against the front step. "Pretty much," he admits sheepishly.

"Idiot," Stiles says, letting all the affection burning inside him slip out on his voice, until it's less an insult and what probably sounds like a term of endearment. 

Derek smiles a little. "But I'm _your_ idiot, right?" he hazards, and just like that, Stiles can't breathe again. 

"Jesus," he croaks. "Yeah. Yeah, you are. Fuck, Derek, I'm so in love with you."

As declarations of emotional attachment go, it seems to Stiles that this one leaves something to be desired. Derek looks winded, like Stiles' words somehow punched a hole straight through his chest, and _now_ Stiles is _really_ panicking -- that he came on too strong, that this isn't what Derek needs, and hadn't he just promised himself that he'll take this thing slow, that he'll wait, give Derek all the time he needs? Shit. What does he do now? Somehow he doesn't think 'I'm sorry' will go down all that well, and this isn't something he can just take back. He's going to have to tough his way through, maybe try and convince Derek it isn't really all that big a deal, honestly, it's fine if--

He doesn't know what's on his face right now, but Derek shakes his head, and then he laughs. To Stiles' knee-shaking relief, it isn't angry, or bitter, or (even worse) amused. It's slightly hysterical, disbelieving, even, but Stiles is prepared to wait for an explanation, this once.

Derek runs his hands through his hair, a little wildly. "God, Stiles, you don't even realise, do you?" he says, voice shaking ever so slightly. "You have _no idea_. Remember that night, when I found you and drove you home?" He barely waits for Stiles' nod before he goes on, like the words are bursting out of him and he hasn't the power to keep them in. "It was about a week after Kate broke up with me. I thought I was--god, I was so alone, and I couldn't--everyone was so busy with the fire, with insurance forms and investigators that they didn't have time for me, and anyway, it's not like I told them much about what went on. Laura and Peter only know because they were practically in the middle of it. So there's me, walking around aimlessly, wondering if it might not be better for everyone if I just sat in that cave I was closing in on and never came out again, and there you were. Small, and alone, and frightened, and you knew who I was. You knew me, and you knew about the fire, and maybe you didn't know about Kate, but you didn't look at me any differently. You didn't know the first thing about what an idiot I was to fall so blindly and stupidly for her, to go along with everything she wanted even if I really wasn't sure I wanted it, because it might have got her to stay, but you still took my hand, and you sat in the car with me, and _you_ didn't think I was worthless. You didn't think I was a child trying to play grown-ups. You trusted me. I was still someone who could be trusted, who could do something to help a scared, hurting kid. You have no idea that you saved me just as much as you think I saved you."

Derek's breathing hard when he finishes, echoes of the stream of words that had rushed through him knocking around in Stiles' head. He is trying not to cry at the pain in Derek's voice, shadowy with time but no less real, and trying to process it all, that what he had thought had been a chance encounter for Derek could have been so much more, could connect them in ways that Stiles had never imagined. And he also realises it's true: he still trusts Derek not to hurt him, to be someone who will stand at his side and take his weight when he needs it. 

He doesn't know what to say. Derek seems to be waiting for something, but Stiles will be damned if he knows what is expected of him. All he can think is that he loves this man more than there are words in any language to describe; that he wants to stand next to Derek forever, that he wants to be for Derek all the things that Derek is for him. That he'll take anything Derek is willing to give him, and be _happy_. It frightens him half to death, that he is placing so much of himself in the balance, that he's giving Derek so much power over him; but at the same time, this isn't something he can stop. This isn't something that he can stare down, and say, No, thanks, I'll pass. It is what it is. He can only hope that Derek meets him halfway -- and by the sound of it, Derek is more than willing.

"I'm glad," Stiles says at last. It's weak, and kind of insipid, but it's true. He's glad he could help Derek, even when he'd had no idea that's what he'd been doing.

Derek's hands lift, cup Stiles' face, pull him forward. Their lips meet with a kind of gentle, aching desperation, emotions that Stiles would have thought would be mutually exclusive -- if he could think at all. As it is, he can barely remember his own name, can barely recall anything outside of Derek's lips on his, Derek's breath teasing his cheek, Derek's scent weaving through his lungs, becoming a part of him. He is dimly aware that he's clutching the front of Derek's shirt desperately, like letting go would bring disaster, like Derek might disappear in a swirl of mist if Stiles' fingers dared slacken.

"I love you, too," Derek whispers against his mouth when they break the kiss to gulp down lungfuls of air. It's as if someone took a firework and set it off inside Stiles' stomach -- only without the unpleasant tearing apart and all the bleeding. Just a burst of light, colour, the essence of joy. Stiles had honestly thought that all the books and the films were making it up; it had seemed perfectly absurd that anyone could feel like this, happiness fluttering inside him on the wings of a thousand butterflies. It's ridiculous. Unrealistic. It's happening to him all the same, whether he believes it's possible or not.

That night, the bed gets christened at last. So does the wall of the hallway. And the kitchen table. And the bathtub. Derek is in proportion _everywhere_ ; it's positively unfair, not that Stiles is complaining when he's reaping the results of Nature's bounty. Derek's long, thick cock feels like it was molded just for him; it fits him like a key fits a lock, and when it finally breaches him, when it slots in place inside him, well. Apparently seeing stars isn't just a metaphor, either. Stiles feels like all the breath is knocked out of him again; he feels whole, like he has been waiting and waiting for this, and only now realises there was something he'd been searching for all the while. He doesn't pretend to understand, but when something feels this good, this _right_ , when Derek's hands on his hips feel like they complete him, when Derek's mouth on his neck is a benediction as well as mind-bending pleasure, that's when Stiles gives up on thinking, on trying to understand, on berating himself for sounding like a heroine out of a bodice-ripper novel, and just _feels_. Hands, tracing gentle yet greedy paths up his thighs; stubble rubbing against the tops of his shoulders, in the dipping curve between them; a tongue darting out for a taste, quickly followed by lips sucking his skin between them, like they can keep the taste of him inside. A rasping voice whispering 'yes', and 'love you', and ' _Stiles_ '. The desperate, needy groan when Stiles sighs, "Yeah, baby. Love you, too." It's raw, and honest, and true, and it's his. All his, and he has no intention whatsoever of letting anyone even _think_ of taking it away from him.

Later, there is a cold nose pressed to the back of Stiles' neck, and long, muscled arms wound around his middle. A contented huff of breath stirs the small hairs by his ear. Moonlight streams through the blackout curtains they forgot to close, painting Derek's skin a silvery bronze. Below the bedroom window, Eyre barks cheerfully in the back yard, probably warning squirrels off their property. The bed holds up to its promise, more than admirably. 

"I hope you know that you can't force, talk or bribe me out of this bed for the foreseeable future," Stiles mumbles, half-asleep, drifting on a wave of quiet bliss.

"I hope you know that the same is also true of you making me let you out of it," Derek rumbles, a note of fierce satisfaction weaving through his voice. 

Stiles smiles. What the hell. The weekend stretches before them, with its promise of lazy mornings and warm sheets and Derek's divine coffee; and, in a clinch, Domino's deliver everywhere in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's almost it, guys. Just an epilogue to come, and this tale will be finished. Thank you for the truly amazing amounts of love that you've all sent my way. You guys rock my world. <333 
> 
> I would also like to express my thanks to the maker of the Out of the Woods Derek/Stiles fanmix, which got me through writing this chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Epilogue**

It's such a pain in the ass, how the weather can turn just like that in Beacon Hills. It's June now, for god's sake, it should be warm, or at least balmy. Certainly has been for most of the day, but here Stiles is now, taking Eyre on her walk after work through midtown, hurrying for his car before they both turn into lumps of ice and have to wait for the morning to defrost. He shivers, tucking his thin jacket around himself, flipping the collar up against the freezing wind that seems to be bypassing the fabric entirely and just lodging in his bones. He can't wait to get home, can't wait to snuggle up to Derek and the delicious heat he always gives out, and let it warm him up until he's perfectly cozy tucked in against Derek's side, Derek's arm around him holding him close, Derek's cheek resting on top of his head as they linger together in front of the tv.

Lost in pleasant contemplation of the many ways in which Derek will make sure he is warmed through and through, Stiles almost misses the noise at first. They're just around the corner from the car, and it's tempting, _so_ tempting to just walk on, ignore it and rush for the warmth of the Jeep -- but Stiles also knows himself, well enough to be aware that Derek will not be happy when Stile drags him out of the house in two hours' time to investigate, because he will simply not be able to let it go, will keep wondering -- what if it had been someone/something that needed his help? (Derek will do it, because it's Stiles, and Derek knows him almost as well as Stiles knows himself by now; but he'll grumble, and frown, and as amusing as that can be, these days Stiles likes to think those occurrences are few and far between.)

So he dips behind the corner, trusting Eyre's nose to alert him for any danger that might be lurking, and takes a brave step down the dimly lit alley. He knows he's being a bit stupid about this, knows all the ways in which this can go wrong (he is the Sheriff's son, after all); but he also could never let sleeping wolves lie -- even when he really, really _should_.

Eyre snuffles around, and then gives a little yip, just like the instructors at the K9 academy taught her. Means she's found something, and it's probably safe to approach. Stiles does so, placing his feet down lightly on the dry asphalt, trying not to make too much noise and startle whatever it is they're creeping up on. There's a foul-smelling dumpster off to the side, and it's this that Eyre leads him towards now. Stiles just hopes they aren't about to stumble upon a grisly murder, because that would emphatically _not_ be a nice way to end his Thursday night, even if it will give him the chance to see his dad.

There is no congealing puddle of blood for him to step into, though, and no sign of a dead body. What there is, is another rustle of newspapers that attracted Stiles in the first place, and just under it, a pathetic little _meep_ in reaction to Eyre poking her muzzle into the nest of paper. Emboldened, Stiles crouches and gently pushes Eyre's head out of the way before he lifts the top tier of crumpled pages and peers beneath it. The tiny kitten shuffles backwards, cramming itself into a corner between the wall at its back and the dumpster at its side. The alley is pretty dark, as alleys go, and the kitten is deep in shadow, so Stiles has no chance to see its colouring; not that it would matter, even if he did. It's a kitten, and it's obviously on its own. It's small, and frightened, and defenceless, and it looks half-starved. It's pretty much designed to melt Stiles' heart. He has no choice at all; he reaches in the gloom and scoops the ball of fur up. He expects Eyre to go nuts at the sight of it; but apparently his dog is even more like him than he thinks, because she just sniffs at the kitten, nosing into Stiles' hands in concern. 

"We're taking it home, huh," Stiles murmurs, finger stroking over the kitten's head. It shivers in his hold, a non-stop vibration through the whole of its tiny body. Stiles instinctively presses it to his chest, unbuttons his jacket and slips it inside, uncaring of its filthy, matted fur ruining his shirt, and bracing it so it doesn't fall out. The kitten burrows into him, settling just over his heart, where it curls into a small ball of relief. Stiles' heart pounds a little; there's a sweet stab of ache somewhere behind his ribcage, something Stiles wants to rub away but knows he could never reach. He has always had a soft spot for small, fuzzy things, he knows that well enough; and besides, he could never leave it behind to likely freeze to death.

Driving with a kitten huddled to his chest is no mean feat. Its tiny, sharp claws puncture through the thin cotton of his shirt, this close to shredding through his chest. Stiles lets it slip until it's resting in his lap, and whether it's the stream of heat that Stiles immediately switches on, or the hum of the engine beneath them, but the kitten calms, and settles. Eyre sits at attention in the passenger seat, ears alert and eyes fixed unerringly onto their precious cargo. 

They get to Derek's house as quickly as on any other night, but the trip seems simultaneously to last way too long and be over in a flash. Stiles cuts the engine, knowing that everyone in the house would have heard him arrive -- the Hales all have freakishly good hearing, almost as good as Eyre's -- and he manages to climb out without dislodging the ball clinging to the fabric over his stomach. The front door opens before he can get to it, and Derek stands smiling in the rectangle of inviting light -- a smile that slips right off his face when his eyes drift lower, to where Stiles is holding tight onto the bundle gravity is trying to claim.

"Are you okay? Is something wrong? Are you hurt?" Derek demands, starting forward before Stiles waves him back with one hand. 

"I'm fine, I'm great, don't worry. I'll show you in a second," he says, climbing up the steps and into the welcoming warmth of the house, Eyre padding softly at his heels. Derek closes the door behind the two of them and follows Stiles anxiously into the living room, all but hovering at his back. When they get inside, Laura and Peter look up from their respective seats on the sofa and a deep leather armchair, faces adopting the same concerned look that's on Derek's face. It's kind of hilarious, and kind of touching, to see the quiet way they all _care_ about him.

"Okay, look, I promise it's nothing," he says reassuringly while he unbuttons his jacket and reaches inside, gently detaching the kitten's claws from his shirt. "I just happened across something while I was walking Eyre -- or should I say, _Eyre_ was the one who happened across this." He removes the kitten from the depths of his jacket. It blinks confusedly at the light and the people, huddling into Stiles' hands wrapped around it.

"That's a kitten," Derek states, showcasing his keen grasp of the obvious. Stiles only just stops himself from making fun of him, because he wants Derek in a good mood if he's going to convince him to keep the kitten -- which was always Stiles' endgame, let's face it.

"That it is, buddy," he says cheerfully. Derek's look is disproportionately suspicious, Stiles feels, for something so small and unassuming. "I don't think it's going to bite you."

Derek does not look reassured. He backs up to the other end of the room, and now Stiles is really having to work to keep the laughter off his face. He bites his lip, hard.

Eyre, meanwhile, is apparently a better host than the rest of them combined. She creeps closer and noses at the kitten; then, when Stiles puts it down on the floor, Eyre hunkers down, rests her head on her paws, and just looks at the kitten for a long moment. The kitten, clearly lacking all sense of self-preservation, looks right back. 

"Meep?" it says, head nudging forward, rubbing one cheek against the side of Eyre's muzzle.

Thirty seconds later, the kitten is on its back, being washed by Eyre's long, pink tongue, eyes closed in bliss and purring fit to burst.

Laura, now standing next to Derek on the other side of the room, wears a look of dismay that mirrors her brother's.

"What is this?" she asks plaintively, frowning. "Stiles, what is Eyre _doing_?"

"It's unnatural," Derek grunts in agreement, sounding deeply discomfited. 

Stiles' shoulders shake. His lip aches from his teeth digging into it, but he can't help himself. Damn, but he loves these people.

An hour later, the kitten is more or less clean, courtesy of a wet washcloth as well as Eyre's spittle, and apparently a lovely light ginger colour. Its eyes are still blue-ish, but Stiles has a suspicion that it's just young, and in time they will undoubtedly change into something just as striking as its adopted family's. It's also curled up in Peter's lap on the leather armchair, tummy full of milk, and fast asleep. Peter's fingers card gently through it's fur, while he watches Derek and Laura with something that looks much like scientific curiosity. Brother and sister are sitting on the sofa across from him, faces pinched and mouths tight, watching him in faint horror. Stiles, still as amused as before, watches them all from the smaller sofa. The argument has been had, Stiles has discovered an unexpected ally in Peter, and the fight has been won. The kitten is staying. In the morning, there will be a visit to the vet, and a trip for kitten-raising supplies, and Stiles rather thinks there will be another fight as to what they will name it, one that will probably involve Edward, Isaac and Erica, too -- and that's before Lydia and Allison hear about it. God help them all if it's a boy; the girls will probably insist on calling him Rochester, to keep with what they'll insist is tradition (and nothing to do with that film with Michael Fassbender in it). 

But this is now, and Stiles is still basking in the glow from the way Derek had grumbled, but relented quicker than Stiles had expected, eyes soft where they landed on Stiles, mouth quirked in a self-deprecating smile. Stiles is slowly but surely reaching the astounding conclusion that Derek doesn't appear to be able to say no to him, not when it's something Stiles really wants. This is....well, unexpected is the least of it. Derek's unselfconscious capitulation had made Stiles' heart beat faster, sent a wonderful warmth blooming inside him, enhanced by how Derek's fingers had brushed against his while Peter and Laura carried on the argument, Laura scowling and Peter displaying a bland mask that just wound Laura up all the more. The kitten, oblivious to the trouble it had caused, had batted a small paw at Laura's ankle that had made her jump back with a startled meep that sounded just like the kitten's. Even Derek had had to turn away to hide his grin at that, so that Laura wouldn't catch him and eviscerate him.

"You know I love you best, darling," Stiles murmurs, much later, while he's tucked in against Derek's side, one leg thrown between his and head pillowed on his shoulder.

Derek huffs a sigh, but the arm around Stiles' shoulders tightens, and Stiles feels a kiss pressed against the top of his head, Derek's deep inhale, the way he always does when they're in bed together, scents intermingling. 

"I know," Derek murmurs back, a smile in his voice. He is relaxed under Stiles' touch, breathing deep and even, a soft purr in the back of his throat that Stiles privately thinks isn't all that dissimilar than the one the newest member of their family lets out when stroked, not that he'll ever say so out loud. He takes his victories where he can find them, and this, here, the two of them wrapped around each other, drifting slowly to sleep, knowing they'll be doing it for the rest of their lives? It's the biggest prize of them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, folks. Thank you again for all your encouragement, everyone who read this along as I wrote it and let me know how much they enjoyed it. It has kept me going as surely as the story itself. <3


End file.
